


Let Your (House) Colors Brightly Shine

by AetherSeer



Category: Hockey RPF, Women's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Alternate Universe - Magic, Gen, M/M, Triwizard Tournament
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-27 17:33:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15690105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: It’s not like Sasha was evernotgoing to put his name in the Goblet. The entirety of his house expects him to put his slip of paper in with true Ovechkin flair … which doesn’t explain why Sasha’s instead waited until ten o’clock the night before the announcing to even approach the Goblet.





	Let Your (House) Colors Brightly Shine

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would have never been written without the spark of inspiration from nomorelonelydays and her anons on Tumblr. Nor would it have gotten past a few thousand scattered words without the help and commentary of fiveandnocents, Catznetsov, and LadyJanelly. Thank you, everyone, for your support.
> 
>  **Author’s note:** While I did my best to keep age groups together, I did shift a few people either up or down a few years. Most of them are in the right years as according to draft classes.

It’s not like Sasha was ever _not_ going to put his name in the Goblet. The entirety of Ravenclaw house _expects_ him to put his slip of paper in with true Ovechkin flair … which doesn’t explain why Sasha’s instead waited until ten o’clock the night before the announcing to even approach the Goblet.

He’s well within the proper age restrictions—an entire _year_ older than Zhenya, even, despite them both being seventh-years—so there’s really no reason for him to be nervous as he crosses the spell border. Still, he blows out a shaky breath when nothing happens.

The Goblet’s flames are cool to the touch when Sasha’s fingertips brush against them as he drops in his name. There’s no fanfare, just the eerie absence of crackling flames. Sasha shivers and backs away. He’s read all the books Hogwarts has on the Triwizard Tournament: he’s signed an unbreakable contract.

There’s no going back now.

 

Sasha’s distracted the entirety of the next day. He taps his wand against his desk all through Transfiguration—he earns a raised eyebrow and an unimpressed stare from Professor Wickenheiser—and nearly blows himself and Greenie up in Potions when he drops Bulbadox powder into the cauldron instead of Bulbadox juice. “Get your shit together,” Mike whispers. “We need to pass Potions, but I’m not gonna die trying to do it.”

Sasha gets his shit together, and they manage to scrape together a fairly decent approximation of Professor Roy’s example, as long as one ignores the occasional bubble rising to the surface. At least it’s the right color this time, a lurid purple that turns black when stirred. Sasha lets Mike wrestle with the tiny sample flasks, preferring instead to wipe down their station and put away the leftover ingredients.

It’s a mindless task, and one that lets him flip through every possible scenario for tonight’s announcement. He’s in the midst of imagining Zhenya’s disappointed face when Mike pokes his head back in. “You’re insane, you know that?”

“What I do now?” Sasha asks. He thinks back, but he hasn’t pranked the second-years in at least three weeks. And the semi-permanent muffling charm on the Tower entrance was definitely not Sasha. He’s betting on one of the Czechs, actually, for that one. It’s annoying as hell, but easy enough to get around once you start throwing out random answers, because one of them’s bound to be technically “right” sooner or later.

“You entered the Tournament, didn’t you,” Mike says, casting _Muffliato_ around the two of them. “You said you were only thinking about it. That only a Gryffindor would be stupid enough to risk their life for a Cup.”

Well … “That was only to make fun of Gryffindors,” Sasha says. “Cup would be nice to put in common room. Show Hogwarts is best.”

“And that you’re the best at Hogwarts?”

“Of course I’m best. Who else even qualify? Rask? Price?” Sasha has to laugh. Tuukka and Carey are talented, but he’s bested both of them more than once in flat-out duels—unsanctioned, but nonetheless entertaining when Scottish winters have pinned the student body indoors.

“Burnzie told me Crosby entered.” Mike’s face is serious. “And you could seriously die.”

Sasha’s laughter trails away. Of fucking _course_ Crosby entered. Even Sasha has to admit Crosby’s good—beyond good—but Sasha’s better.

Mike’s still watching him, waiting for an answer. “Yes. Is risk, but … no one’s died in years. And I am _very_ good at magic.”

Mike looks like he wants to argue, but Sasha breaks the spell before he opens his mouth again. Sasha pushes past him to the classroom door. Mike dodges a pair of bickering firsties in the hallway and catches up. He gets a hand on Sasha’s forearm before Sasha turns to face him. “I already put my name in,” Sasha says quietly. “I can’t take it back. If Goblet picks me, I have to play.”

Mike lets out a breath and meets Sasha’s eyes. “If I can help,” he offers, letting the sentence trail off.

“I ask you first,” Sasha promises.

 

Sasha barely tastes the food he puts on his plate—which is a shame because the house elves make really good roasted chicken—and he watches Headmaster Gretzky anxiously. It’s nearly an hour into supper when the headmaster finally stands up and calls for everyone’s attention. Deputy Headmaster Rhéaume’s the one to step forward and vanish the age-restricting spell, letting the Goblet know it’s time.

Sasha can see the back of Zhenya’s head over at the Hufflepuff table. He’s still wearing the stupid-looking bearskin cloak over his horrible Muggle-style clothing, and he’s sitting next to Crosby, of all people. But he’s managed to drum up a small fanclub, if the gaggle of Gryffindor girls practically piled on top of each other staring at him is any indication. There’s no accounting for taste, Sasha decides.

The Goblet flares red, and Rhéaume snatches the piece of cream-colored paper out of the air. “From Koldovstoretz, Evgeni Malkin.”

Zhenya ducks his head as he stands, but looks pleased with himself as he accepts his schoolmates’ congratulations. Rhéaume gestures to the side door, and Zhenya ducks through it.

The Goblet flares red again, and this time the little scrap of paper is a pale blue. “From Beauxbatons, Marie-Philip Poulin.”

Sasha doesn’t recognize the blonde teenager from Beauxbatons, despite the French students having largely been folded into Ravenclaw for the last few days, but he claps politely as Poulin follows Zhenya.

The Goblet flares up again, red sparks spitting out the last piece of paper. Rhéaume snags it out of the air like the Keeper she once was, and unfolds it with flair. “And representing Hogwarts, Alexander Ovechkin.”

The hall’s silent for a split second, and Sasha’s heart plummets to his stomach. He looks over at Crosby, who’s watching him back, brow furrowed. But someone lets out one of those loud-as-fuck whistles, and the Gryffindor table erupts in applause. The noise swells to a deafening crescendo, and Sasha’s practically hauled out of his seat by his teammates. He dodges through a crowd of black robes and sighs in relief once the side door closes behind him.

Zhenya snorts. “Of course it’s you,” he says in Russian. “Why would the Goblet of Fire _not_ pick you and me to compete against each other?”

Sasha shrugs. “You’ll learn to enjoy coming in second one of these days,” he says magnanimously.

Zhenya makes a complicated face at that, and steps forward. Sasha stands his ground. He never been afraid of Zhenya, especially since Zhenya had cried for days after Mama Malkin had refused to let him get a Crup puppy. At 14. Maybe “cried for days” is inaccurate, but there had been tears at one point.

They don’t find out who’s better at fighting Muggle-style—definitely Sasha: Zhenya’s a beanpole—because Poulin steps in between them. “Save it for the Tournament,” she says. Her English is much less accented than either Sasha’s or Zhenya’s, which, unfair. Sasha’s been speaking English since he transferred to Hogwarts _years_ ago, and he _still_ runs into first-years (and the occasional substitute professor) who can’t understand him.

Headmaster Gretzky walks in then, effectively stopping any further arguments, followed by Professor Rhéaume, Koldovstoretz Headmaster Kovalchuk, and Beauxbatons Deputy Headmistress Ouellette.

Ouellette gives Poulin a smile and a nod, and then addresses all three of them. “You’ve each been chosen by the Goblet of Fire to represent your schools. You knew and understood the risks, and you have chosen to accept them. We look forward to watching you compete over the next few weeks, but there are a few things you must do before the First Task.”

 _What?_ Nothing Sasha’s read said anything about pre-tasks. Just the three Tasks, and whoever gets the best score wins. And well, whoever survives and doesn’t lose an eye or something. Sasha’s competitive, but he also values his life.

Professor Rhéaume steps forward. “Tomorrow,” she says, “the three of you will give an interview to the local press—and, as I understand, a reporter from Russia and France each for Evgeni and Marie-Philip—and have your wands inspected. After that, you will be given two days to prepare for the First Task. I wish you all the very best of luck.”

 

Sasha doesn’t head back to Ravenclaw Tower straight away. He instead takes a meandering hallway that passes by the kitchens (and Hufflepuff’s really-not-that-secret common room entrance), delves beneath the Potions classroom and labs, and skirts the edge of the lake. He pauses by one of the enchanted windows and peers into the murky depths, but only sees the odd fish. Sasha swears he’s seen a part of the Giant Squid before, but has yet to repeat the experience.

The hallway splits into two at the bottom of a staircase, and Sasha takes a seat on the second step, humming out-of-tune as he taps his wand once, twice, and once more. The stone stairs groan beneath him, but fall silent once more when Sasha pats them.

The sconces in the wall creak, and the wall shivers before sliding to the side. Sasha catches a glimpse of the Slytherin common room beyond the short tunnel, the familiar soft green glow and high-backed chairs around the fireplace.

“They’re not sentient,” Nicky says. _What?_ Oh, the stairs. “Not yet, anyway. They’re still too new.”

Sasha grins up at Nicky. “They learning, and soon will be able to move, just like other staircases.”

Nicky purses his lips and gives the stairs a considering look. His robes are disheveled; his hair slicked back with way too much gel; and his tie is askew. Sasha pats the step. Nicky sits with a huff. “You entered.”

“I’m Chosen one,” Sasha corrects.

“You’re an idiot, and you’re going to get killed,” Nicky retorts.

“Now you sound like Greenie,” Sasha says. He’s a little hurt that everyone doubts his abilities. Magic is something Sasha’s _good at._ It makes sense, in a way that very little else does. Magic flows, and it responds, and it’s limited only by one’s imagination. And Sasha has an active imagination.

There’s a reason the Hat put him in Ravenclaw.

Nicky’s smile is barely there, just a flicker of movement at the corner of his mouth. “Sometimes Mike makes sense,” he says. “Rarely, though.”

 

The wand weighing is a breeze. The interview, though, gives Sasha a headache. It’s clear that Cherry had expected someone else—Crosby—to be chosen, and he keeps wording his questions to make Sasha look like an incompetent idiot, of which he is neither, thanks.

Sasha’s glad when Professor Rhéaume wraps up the interviews so they can escape to the Great Hall for lunch. He piles his plate high with sandwiches, ignoring the furious whispering from the Beauxbatons contingent still grouped at the other side of the table.

He doesn’t hide his surprise when Poulin sets her plate down next to his. She doesn’t say anything, just eats her food. The whispering does stop, though. “Thank you,” Sasha says as he stands to leave.

She smiles at him, sharp and fierce. “Good luck. May the best woman win.”

Sasha barks out a laugh. “Yes. Good competition.”

 

Sanya is the first one awake in their dorm the next morning, and his cry of dismay is enough to jolt Sasha from his dreams. Sasha glares blearily over the coverlet at his roommate. “Is early, Sanya. Why you make such an awful noise?”

Sanya wordlessly points out the narrow window, and Sasha acknowledges the futility of going back to sleep. He shoves his covers back, shivering as Ravenclaw’s always-chilly air wafts over him, and shoves his feet into his slippers. He pads over to the window and plasters himself to Sanya’s back.

The Quidditch pitch is gone.

Sasha’s awake now, scanning the grounds below them. The familiar checkered patterns of the stands remain, but where the field usually rests is now a white sheet of what looks like ice. On either end, rather than the goalposts, are smooth panes of mirrored glass.

“How are we supposed to play on this?” Sanya demands. His English is still shit after all this time, and Sasha’s not in the mood to force himself to translate. Russian is easier.

“Maybe it’s for the First Task?” Sasha muses. None of the books had mentioned anything about ice or mirrors. Maybe it’s a new challenge, one that hasn’t been done before. Sanya still looks betrayed, but lets Sasha steer him over to his wardrobe and root through it.

“Don’t steal my clothes again,” Sanya says. “You stretched out the collar of my favorite shirt last time.”

“I fixed it. Quit whining. Also, you have shit taste in clothes. Why would I want to steal them?” Sasha responds, absently pawing through Sanya’s robes. He comes up with a sedate navy jumper and holds it up against himself.

Sanya sighs. “Not navy. Brighter. For your eyes.” Sanya rifles through Sasha’s own wardrobe and tosses him a lighter blue shirt and tan slacks. “These, to impress your little Slytherin love.” He steals the navy jumper for himself, and ignores Sasha’s automatic response of “Nicky’s not little.”

They continue bickering quietly in Russian as the rest of their dorm wakes up. Sasha strokes his chin thoughtfully, examining the sparse scruff there for a moment in the mirror before applying a shaving charm. Beside him, Sanya lathers up his face for his Muggle-style straight razor. Sasha hops up on the sink, watching as Sanya carefully applies the shining blade to his skin. “I still don’t know why you refuse to use shaving charms. It’s not like you don’t know the spell by now.”

“My father taught me how to shave,” Sanya says, wiping down the blade before angling for his right side. “I’ve told you this before—charms don’t do as good a job. I end up with stubble halfway through the day, and my stubble looks terrible.”

“Your _face_ is what looks terrible,” Sasha teases. Sanya just rolls his eyes. Fondly, Sasha thinks.

Sanya’s finished shaving by the time Devan stumbles in, pillow creases up one cheek. “What in Merlin’s name happened to the pitch?” he asks.

“No idea,” Sasha answers in English. “We think it for First Task.”

“Oh.” Devan wrinkles his nose. “You’d better win this Tournament fast so we can get our pitch back to normal. Otherwise we’re gonna have trouble when we match up against Hufflepuff in the next match. Out of practice and all.”

“Gotcha, Cap.” Sasha mock salutes and scoots out of the bathroom in time to avoid the rest of the sixth- and seventh-year boys.

 

Breakfast is a rushed affair; Sasha has important research to do to prepare for the First Task. He ducks outside and heads for the Quidditch pitch. That ice isn’t natural, and if he can figure out how it was conjured, he might be able to figure out the Task.

Unfortunately, when he gets closer to the pitch, it becomes clear that he won’t be getting anywhere near the ice. The wards shimmer ominously, encircling the pitch in a dome-shaped shield. Sasha’s good, but he’s nowhere near a professional cursebreaker yet.

He ends up circling the dome, trying to get a better look from the ground. It’s on this second pass that he mentally slaps himself and summons his Quidditch broom. The view’s a lot clearer from the air, at least after he figures out the best angle to reduce the reflection off the wards.

Sasha abruptly wishes he’d thought to steal Devan’s Omnioculars; that would let him see what the wizards below him are doing, clustered as they are near one of the giant mirrors. Sasha can’t make out any details, but he _can_ tell the sheet of ice covering the field isn’t nearly as smooth as it looks from Ravenclaw Tower. Or maybe it’s changed in the hour since he saw it last. Either way, there are definitely ridges and uneven bits, and one dark crack about a third of the way through that looks pretty deep.

Maybe it’s an obstacle course?

 

Sasha doesn’t have time to run up to the library before Charms, so he busies himself with writing theories instead of taking notes. Thankfully, Professor Sakic doesn’t read Cyrillic, and Sasha’s established a habit of taking his notes in Cyrillic. It’s not like Sasha doesn’t already know how to cast a Revealing Charm anyway.

Sanya shoves an elbow into Sasha’s ribs, jolting him back into awareness just as Sakic focuses his attention on their row. “And what,” Sakic asks, “does our illustrious Champion have to say about revealing charms?”

“Is good to know truth of matter,” Sasha replies with a toothy grin. “Always better to know truth than lie, and applies to hidden writing, or just feelings.”

“I wouldn’t recommend casting a Revealing Charm on your crush,” Sakic says to the class at large. “You might not like what you find, _and_ it’s a breach in the privacy laws …”

And he’s off again. Sanya leans over and scans Sasha’s notes, flipping back a page to where Sasha had drawn out a diagram of the modifications to the pitch. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know yet. Maybe an obstacle course, but none of the other Tournaments I’ve read about have anything with ice. Not when they weren’t taking place at Koldovstoretz or Durmstrang, at least.”

 

Sasha’s not the first one out the door when Professor Recchi finally releases them from Arithmancy that afternoon, but he’s close. He takes the stairs two at a time, but is waylaid when the stairs swing about with him still aboard. He has two days to figure out the First Task, and very little in the way of clues to help him prepare.

Thanks to the detour, it take him a full 30 minutes to backtrack and get to the library. But when he walks in and tries to head for the bestiaries, Madam Merz points him toward the study tables in the back. Once he dodges a determined Gryffindor carrying a stack of books taller than herself, he sees why.

Sanya and Mike have claimed an entire table, piled high with books all around, and a parchment drawing spread over the wooden surface. Sanya’s tongue is poking out in concentration as he carefully traces his wandtip over the parchment. As Sasha gets closer, he can see the details of the transformed Quidditch pitch, including some he hadn’t noticed himself.

“What’s this?” he asks, poking at one almost circular spot of ink. “How long you here?”

“That’s some sort of cave,” Mike answers. He has three different bestiaries spread open in front of him, and a sheet of parchment half-covered in messy scrawl. He also has ink on his forehead from where he probably scruffed his hair while thinking. Sasha doesn’t tell him that, though.

Sanya finishes his drawing and steps back to look at it again. “You have your map?”

Sasha fishes his notes out of his bag and hands them over, leaning in for a closer look. Sanya’s always had an eye for detail, but—“I didn’t know you could do this,” Sasha says.

“If you stay with History of Magic, you learn things,” Sanya says. He frowns, nudging the ink with his wand. It shifts over obediently, joining two ends together.

Sasha shudders. The five years he’d had with Professor Roenick before earning his O.W.L. were bad enough. There was no way he was taking more of that.

“English,” Mike breaks in. “And Ovi, you might want to look at this.”

Sasha peers over Mike’s broad shoulder to read the passage on Selmas. “Why we reading about sea serpent?”

“Most of the Tournaments have some sort of Task dealing with animals, right? And the pitch got turned into some sort of icy hellscape, and you said it was maybe an obstacle course. Well, Sema thought this,” he points to an uneven oval, “might be a lake. And Selmas,” he brandishes the bestiary, “live in cold, icy lakes.”

Sasha really does have the best friends, he thinks. He squeezes Mike’s shoulder. “I didn’t think of that. What else you find?”

Mike grins at him, and Sanya smiles that quiet smile that reaches his eyes. They both talk over each other, pointing out other magical creatures and potential obstacles that Sasha might encounter if their hunch plays out.

 

“Am dying of heat, Sanya.”

“You’re not the only one, Ovi. Merlin, I’m hot.”

“Shh. Sasha, is good charm, but still too much. Make smaller.” Sanya brings his arms in, cupping his hands together. Sasha cancels the warming charm and Mike blasts the three of them with a jet of cool air. It feels so nice against Sasha’s overheated skin.

“What are you trying to make me do?” Sasha asks Sanya, in Russian this time.

“Your charm is too powerful,” Sanya says. “It’s great if you want to warm up everything in a five-meter radius, but that’ll drain you faster. You need to contain it. Make it smaller.” He pauses. “Like a robe covering your entire body.”

Sasha stares at his friend for a moment, and switches back to English for Mike’s benefit. “How you even come up with this shit?”

Mike rolls his eyes. “What now?”

Sanya widens his eyes. He cups his hands together. “Small.”

Small. Right. Sasha can do small. Sasha rolls his shoulders and shakes out his hands, staring at the ceiling. Like a blanket. Picture the charm settling over him like a blanket rather than a dome. He pictures it in his head, and holds to that image when he casts. The heat settles over him once more, and he opens his eyes.

The dome of shimmering air is smaller than before, by all of a few centimeters. Sasha groans, and drags a hand over his face. Fucking _charms_. Transfiguration’s much more his style.

The charm breaks, and Sasha’s aware more than ever of the rank smell of sweaty teenage boy permeating the training room. He makes a face. He can work on the charm tomorrow, and hopefully it’ll work at least marginally well during the Task.

 

The morning of the First Task greets Sasha in the form of Sanya yanking away Sasha’s coverlet to let in the Tower’s absolutely freezing air. Sasha yelps. And rolls over to grab his wand from the bedside table. A quick _Accio_ retrieves the blankets, inadvertently dragging Sanya closer as well. Sasha wiggles a hand out to yank Sanya into bed with him. “S’cold,” he whines.

Sanya lets Sasha spoon up against his side for all of five minutes, and then jams those long agile fingers into the secret places along Sasha’s ribs. Sasha squirms, and finally gives up, rolling out of bed. When he looks back, Sanya’s sprawled across the mattress, smug smile playing along his lips.

Sasha might not appreciate being blasted by cold air and his best friend literally kicking him out of his own bed, but it does the trick. Sasha’s hands are steady when he casts the shaving charm; his fingers don’t tremble when he fastens his robes.

The wind whips his hair into his eyes as he saunters across the frost-tipped grounds, right hand curled around the handle of his wand, left hand tucked into an inside pocket of his cloak. Sanya flanks his left, Mike his right.

The grounds are a sea of black, the entirety of Hogwarts turned out to see the First Task. Sasha can see the occasional splash of Beauxbatons’ bright blue amid the crowds, a handful of the somber silver of Koldovstoretz’s formal uniform.

There’s a clear area at one end of the pitch where only the headmasters stand. Sasha stops a few meters away and turns to his friends. Sanya’s pale, but his eyes are steady. He hugs back tightly when Sasha practically launches himself at him. Mike crowds against Sasha’s back, cheerfully making it a group effort. “You’ll kill it, Ovi,” he says.

The two let Sasha make his solitary way to where the other two Champions are now waiting, peeling off to sit with their respective houses. Sasha eyes Zhenya’s heavy cloak appreciatively. Zhenya’s distracted, Sasha notices, his attention held by—really, Zhenya? Crosby? Sasha gives Crosby a once-over, but the Hufflepuff prefect looks the same as ever. He shrugs and rolls his eyes.

Poulin’s standing straight-backed in front of Ouellette, wand neatly clasped in front of her. Her hair’s pinned back in a practical braid, but her cloak looks too thin for the weather. Sasha winces internally. He hopes she’s good at warming charms; frostbite’s a bitch and a half, even with magic.

Headmaster Gretzky raises his wand and shoots off a trail of sparks. The crowd falls silent aside from the clicking cameras. “Thank you all for coming to see our Champions take on the First Task of the Triwizard Tournament.”

There’s a wave of cheers and applause, waved down by Gretzky. “Now, to those of you who play Quidditch for your Houses, don’t worry. You’ll have your pitch back to normal soon enough.”

That earns some scattered laughter. Sasha glances over at Poulin. She’s grinning, bouncing on her toes. On her other side, Zhenya’s still fixated on the part of the stands draped in yellow.

Gretzky’s voice recaptures Sasha’s attention. “Champions,” he says, “your Task is to navigate the field before you and find an item that does not belong. There will be obstacles; there will be trials. You will be scored based on your time and your creativity within the field.”

“Empty your pockets; hand over your cloaks,” Headmaster Kovalchuk instructs. Sasha stares at him for a long moment before slowly unfastening his cloakpin and shaking out his empty pockets. He shivers as the wind hits him, glad that he had bundled up in layers beneath.

Poulin hands hers over reluctantly, the bright cloth nearly slipping through Kovalchuk’s fingers. Zhenya purses his lips, a familiar stubbornness coming over his features. But he checks himself and slips the heavy fabric from his shoulders, standing tall against the wind.

Kovalchuk and Gretzky cast a handful of spells apiece on the fabric, and several small items fall out of Zhenya’s hidden pockets. The corner of Gretzky’s mouth quirks when he hands the cloak back. “I’ll hold onto these for you; you can claim them at the end of the Task,” he promises. Sasha doesn’t get a good glimpse of whatever Zhenya had been carrying; he accepts his own cloak back and swings it back ‘round his shoulders.

Ouellette gestures at the giant mirrored surface in front of them. “When the time starts, step through the mirror, and the First Task shall begin.”

 

Sasha steps up to the mirror. An expectant hush falls over the crowd. He can see Poulin and Zhenya in his peripheral vision, and also their reflections in front of him. Poulin looks so small standing between Sasha and Zhenya, but her expression is determined. Zhenya raises his necklace to his lips, pressing a kiss to the cold metal. Sasha tightens his grip on his wand.

There’s the deep tolling of a bell, and Sasha takes his first step forward on auto-pilot. Just like King’s Cross Station, he reassures himself. The mirror looks completely solid, and he has a split-second to wonder if he’ll just bounce off before it slides like water over his skin and he’s through.

Merlin it’s fucking _cold._

He looks to his right, but Poulin and Zhenya are nowhere to be seen. It makes sense, since the Tasks are individual races, but that also means he’s completely on his own. Ahead, Sasha can make out the shining gleam of the other mirror, which must be his destination.

Sasha holds his palm flat, and lays his wand across. “Point Me.” His wand spins left. The mirror is due west, then. Good to know. Especially since he can see the edge of the plateau he’s currently standing on.

The plateau, thankfully, is only about a four-meter drop to the ground, which Sasha can handle pretty easily. He finds decent enough handholds on the surface … and immediately regrets not transfiguring himself a pair of gloves not even halfway down. He jumps the last meter, sticking his hands beneath his arms to warm up while surveying the landscape.

There aren’t very many trees, just a broad expanse of white. Sasha doesn’t waste any more time, transfiguring a pair of pebbles into gloves. The blue looks bright against the blinding white snow, but they’ll keep his fingers warm. He sets a brisk trot across the snow, keeping an eye on the mirror in the distance.

He has an item to find, and hopefully it’ll be obvious against the frozen landscape. Sasha doesn’t want to stay in here any longer than he has to. He may be Russian, but Sanya’s the one from Siberia.

 

Sasha ends up clinging to the edge of a fucking cliff, testing each step with trepidation, because that’s just his luck. “Follow the river,” he mocks himself, “it’ll take you downhill.”

And sure, the river ran the right direction, but he’d followed it for just a bit too far before he realized just how steep the riverbanks were getting. And now he’ll lose too much time if he turns back to go around.

He doesn’t see the Graphorn until it’s almost too late, dodging the first strike by a hair’s breadth and scrambling backwards along the narrow path with a startled yell. The creature’s hide ripples, readying itself for another strike. Sasha scrabbles for his wand, managing to fling himself out of the way again. The Graphorn pursues him, moving way faster than Sasha himself.

“ _Protego!_ ” he manages, throwing up a shield before its horns get within striking distance. The Graphorn ricochets off the shield with an odd clashing sound and Sasha catches his breath. He watches as the Graphorn investigates the barrier: prodding the shield with its nose tentacle things.

It has to be three meters long, at least. Its hide is far more purple than gray, and the description in Sasha’s Care of Magical Creatures textbook was not nearly as informative as Sasha now needs it to have been. What’s he supposed to do with the knowledge that it has thumbed feet? And while he knows its hide is spell-repellent, that _doesn’t exactly help._ The Graphorn snorts as it moves, tracking Sasha’s movements. The shield charm is working, for now, but he’s also trapped inside it.

Something other than the Graphorn catches the light in his peripheral vision. Sasha keeps one eye on the Graphorn as it circles his barrier, and tries to get a better look at whatever it is. The glint comes again, from a tiny opening in the cliff-face. “That had better not be a fucking mirror,” Sasha mutters, gauging the distance.

He takes a few careful steps to the left, and tugs at the charm. It slides over with him, but at a painfully stuttering pace. The Graphorn roars and attacks the dome again. Sasha flinches as it bounces off the barrier, but takes the few seconds of recovery to lower the shield, dash a few meters over, and cast it again in time to ward off the next attack.

The cycle repeats, with Sasha tiring and the Graphorn keeping on somehow, until Sasha’s back is to the opening and he and the Graphorn have switched sides of the path. He keeps his wand steady as he reaches up. The shine is a dull gold, and Sasha’s fingers close around it.

Whatever it is is enclosed in a thick layer of ice, but it’s definitely something that looks out of place, so Sasha pockets it for later study. He has a Graphorn to get around, and two competitors to beat to the finish line.

 

The Graphorn does not like fire, and it _definitely_ does not like having the shield charm wrapped around _it_ rather than Sasha, containing it. Sasha can’t hold the charm forever, especially not once the Graphorn starts attacking the shield from within. The charm isn’t designed for what Sasha’s making it do, and he can feel it weakening.

So he runs, hoping the charm will hold long enough to get away. It should give him at least a 30-second head start on the angry, roaring creature. He can feel the charm snap as the path widens and the river roars over a fall beneath him. He skids to a stop as the canyon Sanya had drawn up earlier yawns beneath him. “How the fuck did they get a Graphorn here?” he pants.

The Graphorn’s nowhere to be seen, so that’s one thing he has going for him. But there’s also precious little else to be seen. Just a scraggly copse of trees and a smattering of boulders, half-covered in ice, across the crack in the land. The river’s turned, no longer heading west, which leaves him with few options.

“How the fuck am I gonna get over this?” he groans, resting his hands on his knees.

There’s absolutely nothing for him to work with. Nothing to transfigure, and nothing in the way of actual structures to build upon. Just the crevasse and a few sad-looking trees that he can barely see.

Sasha eyes the distance across. It’s too far to jump; that’s obvious. And he doesn’t have a broom. But—Sasha taps his wand against his palm and eyes the trees again. There’s not much to work with there, but it’s something. And something’s better than nothing.

 

By the time Sasha’s constructed himself a bridge, he’s chilled from inactivity. The wind’s tearing through his layers, and his gloves only keep his fingers so warm. But the bridge is steady and holding, and he only lost one tree in the process when his levitation charm failed and it plummeted to the icy water below.

The warming charm helps, but he can’t hold it for long. At least he can feel his nose and toes again, and his fingers have stopped turning blue at the tips.

Sasha braces himself and steps on the end of the bridge, ready to jump backwards if needed. The wood creaks, but the slapdash construction holds his weight. And it continues to hold as he gingerly makes his way forward, casting stasis spells every few minutes.

He’s a meter from the other end when the bridge groans and rolls beneath his feet. Sasha yelps and makes a break for it, windmilling for balance on the edge as the tree-root anchors slide forward and yank the entire structure into the canyon. “Fucking, fuck, fuck!”

That was way too close for comfort.

But it was a _fucking fantastic_ show of cobbled-together half-remembered carpentry advice and household spells twisted to make it work. And now Sasha’s that much closer to the other mirror. He thinks he can see it above the hills, but makes sure to check the point-me spell again for reassurance.

The hills are steep, but doable, and Sasha makes it over them without any more creature encounters. He has to stop at the top though, and cast another warming charm. He tries to contain it, and manages to shrink it to a 30-centimeter perimeter. It moves with him this time as he walks, and stays for a few more minutes than expected before snapping. Long enough for him to be able to see the end of the pitch-turned-obstacle course, at last, over the small forest of trees.

 

He’s through the strip of trees, 50 or so meters from the mirror, when he hears the growl.

Sasha freezes and pivots, wand out and ready. The bear emerges from the trees and snarls, and Sasha fucking _books it_ toward the mirror. You’re not supposed to run from a bear, he thinks in a panic, but too late. He just has to hope he’s fast enough to make it through the mirror before he’s eaten.

His heart’s racing, wind rushing in his ears as he runs flat-out, faster than he’d ever tried to go before. He can hear the bear catching up; thinks he feels its hot breath on his neck. He braces for the pain of sharp teeth and claws.

And then the liquid smoothness of the mirror pours over him and he sprawls face-first onto the grass. He can hear the student body cheer, and manages to flip over to his back, staring up at the grey sky.

A brown-furred muzzle looms in his vision and Sasha opens his mouth to—scream? pray? shout?

He gets the chance to do none of those options as his brain slides over a distinct awareness of Other, the bear’s features morphing into familiar sleepy eyes and a shit-eating grin. “You should have seen your _face!_ ” Zhenya crows. He’s on his ass in the dirt, _laughing_ at Sasha.

Sasha drops his head back against the grass and just breathes. “Since when are you an Animagus?” Sasha asks. He feels vaguely insulted Zhenya hadn’t told him about that before the Tournament.

“I just got Registered this summer,” Zhenya says. He stands up and cracks his back, stretching upward. Sasha closes his eyes rather than trying to crane his neck that far up. He gets a foot to the ribs for his trouble. “What?”

“Judging time,” Zhenya says.

 

Sasha swallows hard when he and Zhenya join Poulin in the middle of the scoring zone. The three heads of school have been joined by Minister Bettman and—fuck, that’s _Jaromir Jagr_. Sasha’s been watching Jagr flit between teams for as long as he can remember, never committing for more than a year or two. Sasha keeps up with the IQL when he has time to listen to the wireless. Fitchburg isn’t competing this year, but Jagr’s a fucking _legend_.

Poulin looks awestruck beside them. “He’s a living legend,” she breathes. “I’ve watched him fly for _years._ ”

Sasha—and Zhenya—nod in fervent agreement. How the Tournament warrants an international Quidditch star as a guest judge, Sasha has no idea, but he’s not passing up the chance to meet Jagr.

Bettman clears his throat imperiously. There’s a scattering of _boos_ from the assembled students when he casts _Sonorus._ “Champions,” he says, waving half-heartedly at the three of them, “you have undertaken the First Task and shall be judged from your efforts. But first, let’s have a look at the highlights, shall we?”

 

_What? Highlights?_

Sasha spins around as the mirror turns into a giant screen. Someone must’ve converted a Muggle videocamera or maybe there’s a recording spell Sasha’s never heard of, because he can see Poulin sliding over the edge of the plateau. Beside him, Zhenya makes a startled noise. “Is like paintings,” Zhenya breathes. Oh, right. Zhenya’s a pure-blood. And Koldovstoretz doesn’t have Muggle Studies the same way Hogwarts does.

“It’s like a Muggle movie,” Poulin corrects. “I want to know this spell.”

On-screen Poulin has pulled off her necklace and detaches the little golden broom charm from it. She mutters a spell under her breath. The gold flakes off as the sizing charm breaks. (“Oh, clever,” Sasha says admiringly.) Poulin mounts and kicks off, keeping the broom low to the ground as she scans the terrain for her object.

Poulin’s flying in low, sweeping circles when it strikes from above. Talons rake across the thin material of Poulin’s cloak, rending it to pieces and gouging Poulin’s back. Sasha flinches when Poulin loses control of her broom, tipping sideways and skidding over the snow. There’s red on the snow, her broom meters from where she lies motionless.

The bird—Sasha has no idea what it is; Zhenya’s the one who wants to be a magizoologist—gears up for a second strike, gaining height as Poulin lies in a crumpled heap. As the bird begins its dive, Poulin rolls over and fires a  jet of water from the tip of her wand, following it a split-second later with a freezing charm.

The bird doesn’t stand a chance. Its shriek is cut off, plummeting to the ground. It lands with a shattering _crack._ Poulin slowly gets to her feet, a rivulet of red trickling down one arm to stain the snow. White bandages curl out of her wand, winding up her sleeve beneath her cloak.

 

The scene switches, and gets a closeup of Zhenya as he surveys the course. It takes less than 30 seconds for Zhenya to visibly say “fuck it” and shrug himself into Animagus form. Bear claws apparently make climbing down a rock face a breeze, and soon bear-Zhenya’s trundling off.

Bear-Zhenya has an easy go of it, at least until he gets to a wide-open expanse of ice. The ice stretches farther than Sasha can see in either direction, but there’s a smudge of darkness just visible on what must be the other side.

Sasha recalls the lake Mike had pointed out yesterday and eyes the ice warily. Zhenya has the same suspicions and shifts back, casting several spells at the ice. He stays in human form as he edges out on the slick surface. Sasha snickers when Zhenya nearly falls on his face, but gives him points for creativity when Zhenya transfigures the soles of his boots into skates.

(“Ha,” Sasha says, digging an elbow into Zhenya’s ribs. “I know you paid attention when I took you to the hockey game.”

“It’s still not as good as Quidditch,” Zhenya says. “But it was fun to see Muggle Moscow.”)

Several people let out muffled screams when the ice cracks beneath movie-Zhenya’s feet and he plunges into the water. Sasha sucks in a breath, even knowing Zhenya’s fine, standing beside him none the worse for wear. Bear-Zhenya breaks through the ice, but takes a while to get a grip strong enough to pull himself out of the water, ice cracking beneath his weight.

Bear-Zhenya wuffs and shakes himself, sending water droplets flying. One careful step at a time, claws digging in for purchase, he continues across the frozen lake. On the screen, Sasha sees the dark shape swimming below the surface long before Zhenya pauses, head tilting.

Zhenya’s head comes up and he snarls before breaking into a run for the shore. Behind him, where he had fallen in, a narrow head emerges. The Selma’s hissing shriek makes Sasha flinch and want to cover his ears. Zhenya doesn’t even look back, just flattens his ears to his head.

Zhenya doesn’t bother changing out of his Animagus form once he hits the shore, either, slowing down only when he’s far away from the water.

Sasha leans against Zhenya’s shoulder. “You didn’t want to cuddle the Selma?” he teases.

Zhenya shakes his head. “Not that one. That one wanted to eat me. There’s no fish in that lake for it to eat, and a hungry Selma is not a happy Selma.”

That … doesn’t rule out trying to pet one in the future. Sasha despairs.

 

The screen flickers, and Sasha watches himself warring with the damned Graphorn. He looks away, instead watching the crowd’s reaction. Apparently not everyone had been watching his run, because more than a few flinch as the fucking beast moves in for the attack.

Sasha spots Sanya in the crowd, surrounded by the rest of the team, bedecked in Ravenclaw blue. Sasha’s eyes slide to the left, to the crowd in green and silver. Nicky’s almost hidden behind a cluster of younger girls, his eyes fixed on the screen. Sasha can’t see much from this distance, but he knows the shine of Nicky’s hair.

Zhenya’s elbows are just as knobbly as his knees, and also sharp. “Good move, to flip the charm like that,” Zhenya says.

“Thanks.”

 

The highlights wrap up and a hush falls over the crowd. Sasha pivots to face the judges. Hopefully, although he came in well behind Poulin and just a few seconds before Zhenya, he’ll get a good score. He doesn’t know if the other two found their item; Sasha surreptitiously pats the lump in his cloak pocket.

“Marie-Philip Poulin,” Bettman announces. Poulin takes a few steps forward. “You completed the Task first. The judges will now produce your scores.”

Gretzky points his wand into the air; a 7 emerges. Ouellette gives her an 8; Kovalchuk a 7. Jagr gives her a thumbs-up and a glittery 9. Sasha swallows. Those are high marks, and Poulin was injured, to boot. But she was faster than the both of them.

“Alexander Ovechkin,” Bettman says, his face twisting. It doesn’t take much for Sasha to know Bettman would’ve preferred someone else to represent Hogwarts. He doesn’t care all that much; the Goblet chose him, so clearly he’s the one that’s best-suited for the job.

Kovalchuk’s the first to put up his score: a 6. Gretzky gives Sasha an 8; Ouellette shoots up a 6. Jagr gives him a 7. Overall, Sasha’s not entirely unhappy with his score; 27 out of 40 isn’t the worst possible outcome. If he hadn’t spent so long making the bridge, or if he had snuck a broom in like Poulin, he’d have come out a lot faster.

“Evgeni Malkin,” Bettman states, managing to mangle both of Zhenya’s names. Sasha makes a sympathetic face.

Evidently the judges liked Zhenya’s Animagus form—he gets 7s from all the judges but Jagr, who shoots up an 8, giving Zhenya a two-point lead on Sasha. It’s just _mildly_ unfair, given they’d finished neck and neck. And Sasha hadn’t fallen through the ice and gotten soaked, either.

 

Sasha fiddles with the lump in his pocket all through dinner, running his fingertips over the icy surface. There’s some sort of charm or something that’s keeping the ice from melting, because the inside of his pocket remains perfectly dry and no water clings to his fingers when he checks them.

Once he’s safely back in Ravenclaw tower, Sasha draws the curtains on his bed and pulls out the item. “ _Lumos,_ ” he whispers, sending the light to hover in the middle of the enclosed space. He places the item at the foot of the bed and sits cross-legged opposite it.

The ice obscures the shape of the item within, reducing it to a smear of gold. But it’s not large, that much is obvious. Maybe a bit bigger than a Snitch, if Sasha were to estimate. Sasha picks it up again, turning it over in his hands.

There’s no seam to the ice, no cracks or dents, or uneven pieces. It’s smooth, almost like glass but for the constant chill. He holds it between his palms until his fingers are freezing, but there’s no wetness on his hands when he finally lets go.

Warming charms, even layered, do nothing. Setting it on the embers of the dorm fireplace, also nothing. Even when Sasha builds up the fire, the ice remains unmelted.

The item’s still sitting amid the flames—Sasha scribbling furiously on parchment, the floor around him covered in opened books and scrolls—when Sanya gets back from Astronomy. “What are you doing?”

Sasha brandishes the parchment at his friend, quill gripped firmly between his teeth. “I’ve tried every fire-related spell I know; I’ve tried the fire; I’ve tried melting it. Nothing. I went through your books, too, and still nothing. I’m a fucking seventh-year, not some wet-behind-the-ears firstie, and I can’t figure this out.”

Sanya takes the proffered parchment and skims the list, brow furrowing. He flicks a glance at the item, still sitting cheerfully in the middle of the logs. “Are you sure it’s ice? Have you tried any glassware spells?” he asks after a long moment.

Sasha sighs and reaches into the flames. Sanya yelps and bobbles the catch. He stills. “It’s cold,” he says wonderingly, long fingers cupping the smooth surface.

“You know any glass-melting spells?” Sasha asks. “I’ve tried everything else I can think of. Other than a volcano, and Scotland doesn’t have those.”

“I don’t,” Sanya says slowly, “but I know who might.”

 

Sanya makes them wait until the middle of the fucking night before they sneak out. The eagle at the dorm entrance, thankfully, has never given a shit about students moving around at odd hours, and the portraits are mostly asleep as well. But when Sanya pulls Sasha into a tiny alcove beneath the staircase leading up to the tower and starts counting the bricks, Sasha just stares.

“You’ve lost your mind.”

“Shh, you’ll make me lose count.” Sanya taps his wand against the bricks in a circle counter-clockwise, and then puts his shoulder to the center and _shoves._

Sasha nearly loses his balance when the entire alcove spins. “What—”

“ _Lumos._ ”

The light Sanya conjures has a reddish tint to it, but it’s strong enough for Sasha to make out the narrow tunnel. “What is this place?” he asks.

“Hogwarts has a lot of strange passageways,” Sanya answers, leading off down the tunnel. Sasha conjures his own ball of blue light and keeps close. “If you ask nicely, sometimes she shares her secrets. This particular tunnel takes us right outside Hogsmeade.”

 

The tunnel twists and winds, and Sasha swears they end up walking _back toward Hogwarts_ for most of the way, which makes no sense, but the Wizarding World thrives on twisting reality, so he keeps his mouth shut until they reach the other end. There’s no pattern of brick taps this time, just Sanya pressing a palm to a perfectly ordinary-looking stone wall, and then a rush of cold, wet wind.

Sasha crowds up against Sanya’s back, tucking his chin over Sanya’s shoulder when the other boy doesn’t move. “Oh,” he says softly.

The Black Lake stretches out in front of them, the water lapping at the narrow steps just below Sanya’s boots. Sasha can see the lights in Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers from here, just tiny blocks of warm yellow against the blackness that is Hogwarts. Sanya leans back against Sasha’s bulk.

“I forgot about the tides,” Sanya admits. “It may be a while.”

Sasha pulls Sanya over and sinks to the ground, bracing his back against the tunnel wall. Sanya slides down opposite him. Their legs fit oddly together, ankles and calves knocking against one another as two tall lanky boys jostle for maximum legroom.

Sasha pulls the Task item out of his pocket again, passing it from hand to hand. “Thank you,” he says, “for helping me.”

Sanya’s eyes almost glint in the moonlight as he turns his head. “You didn’t think you’d be doing this alone, did you? That’s what team means, Sasha. Greenie’s not a Raven, but you’re part of something bigger now. You’re _our_ Champion. All of Hogwarts is behind you in this.”

Sasha’s fingers slip and the item tumbles toward the water. Both of them scramble for it; it lands on the next stair, half-submerged in the cold waters. Sanya reaches for it. “Wait!” Sasha gets out, grabbing Sanya’s wrist. They watch for a long moment as the ice melts, slipping away to reveal …

… a shell? Sasha picks up the shell with gentle fingers, pulling his ball of light closer. Sanya leans in, eyes wide.

When he turns the shell over, he sees the strings. “It’s a harp,” he breathes. “What does that mean?” The miniature strings are discordant when Sasha runs his fingers across and both boys flinch.

“It sounds about as pretty as your singing,” Sanya observes, sitting back against the wall. Sasha shakes his head, trying to get rid of the noise aftermath.

It’s a clue, but what’s the clue?

 

“Mandrakes?” is Mike’s contribution the next morning. All three of them wince at the memory of _that_ Herbology lesson. Sasha hopes not. His Mandrake had taken four attempts to repot, and Sasha had felt distinctly woozy for hours afterward despite the earmuffs.

Sasha “plays” the harp again, drawing loud objections from his housemates, who scramble to finish their breakfasts and get away from the noise. He stares at it while chewing his omelet. The shape of it looks familiar, like he’s seen it before.

But where?

 

It’s a question that follows him throughout the day as he attends classes. A harp, made from a shell, that plays awful, discordant music. Ice that didn’t melt until it fell into water. Wait … not _into_ water— _underwater._

Sasha sits up straight in the middle of Transfiguration. The harp looks familiar _because he’s seen it before._

Sasha’s the first one out of the classroom, dodging his classmates as he books it down the halls. He skids to a stop in front of the windows that look into the lake and scans the frames for …  _there._

The carving matches the harp in his hand perfectly, down to the detailing of the shell back. “Mermaids,” Sasha groans. “There are mermaids in the Black Lake.”

He turns his back to the window and slides down the wall. The harp dangles from his fingers as he rests his head against his knees. He _knows_ intellectually that the mermaids in the lake are not the _rusalki_ of his homeland, but he cannot shake the dread that comes with the expectation of having to face one in the waters they call home.

 

The lake is deep, something Sasha knows from his books and from his visits to the dungeon windows, but he’s not prepared for the sheer darkness of the waters the farther he gets from the surface. Strands of kelp and water weeds tug at his ankles; he kicks out blindly.

Even the light of his wand is dimmed by the water around him. He keeps forgetting not to hold his breath; the bubbles stream out of his nose and mouth in flurries when he remembers, hurrying to the surface.

Sasha has to press onward; he has a Task to complete. His hearing is muffled, barely there, and he flinches at each dark shape as fish and other water creatures dart around him, inspecting the strange new invader in their world. Something brushes his ankle, more kelp, and he kicks forward to escape its tangling grip.

The touch firms, and he’s yanked downward with a startled yelp. His wand slips from his fingertips and floats downward, illuminating the pale face and red hair of the _rusalka_ as she drags him down into the depths. Her smile grows, and he glimpses the gleam of sharp teeth before the light fades away.

 

Sasha flails his way from beneath his blankets, fingers outstretched and grasping for his wand. A hoarse “ _Lumos!_ ” bathes the room in soft blue light. He pants, heart racing and flushed with adrenaline. His sheets are damp with sweat.

The harp sits alone on the windowsill, cast in silver by the moon. Sanya snores softly in the next bed, bedcurtains half-drawn. Sasha watches him for a long while as his pulse calms, reassured by the steady familiar sound. His hands tremble in his lap; his skin cools uncomfortably.

Sasha takes the harp with him to the showers, setting it on the soap shelf. The water is warm and gentle against his sweat-slicked skin, washing the memory of the nightmare away. He runs a finger across the strings, but doesn’t expect the resulting melody or the garbled tune that emerges.

He stares. The water streams down around him. The harp falls silent again.

Sasha strokes his fingertips across the strings again, bringing the harp to his ear. Beneath the stream of water soaking his hair, he can hear a voice singing. But he can’t quite make out the words.

Sasha glances around the empty bathroom. He steps out of the shower, padding over to the sink. The harp sits beneath the water, but makes no sound. Sasha takes a deep breath and makes sure his fingers are resting against the strings before he plunges his head beneath the water.

This time, the melody is clear.

Sasha listens twice, and then a third time, and then dashes back to his desk to copy down the words, shoving his dripping hair out of his face even as water droplets threaten to smear the ink. He sits back and reads it over carefully, but the message seems fairly straightforward:

    _Come seek us where our voices sound,_

    _We cannot sing above the ground,_

    _And while you're searching ponder this;_

    _We've taken what you'll sorely miss,_

    _An hour long you'll have to look,_

    _And to recover what we took,_

    _But past an hour, the prospect's black,_

    _Too late, it's gone, it won't come back._

Well, that’s not ominous at all.

 

Sasha doesn’t get much sleep that night. He lies awake until dim light streams through the tower windows, puzzling over the clue and the Second Task. The Black Lake isn’t small by any means, and Sasha doesn’t exactly relish the idea of having to search the entire thing for the mermaid encampment. So narrowing down the map seems a logical place to start.

Sanya snuffles in his sleep as the sunlight creeps its way toward his face. Sasha gives up on getting back to sleep. Instead, he pulls on clean robes and makes his way to the kitchens. The house elves are happy to provide him with a portable breakfast, which he then sneaks into the library.

The bestiary section, thankfully, has dozens of books on merfolk and their cousins. The Black Lake isn’t a saltwater lake, so Sasha skips over the sea-dwelling branch of merfolk. He still ends up with a stack of volumes nearly half as tall as himself.

By the time a handful of Slytherin and Hufflepuff second-years straggle in for pre-Potions recap (if what he manages to overhear is any indication), Sasha’s concluded that the merfolk colony in the lake will most likely have built their home in the shelter of the cliff-face, at the deepest point possible with a straight shot to the surface. So that at least narrows it down to a reasonable distance to search.

“But what are they going to take?” Sasha mutters to himself. And for that matter, how is Sasha going to get _to_ the mervillage? He’s not the worst swimmer, but he’s much more comfortable on a broom. Which doesn’t help him here.

“Diving, swimming, breathing underwater …” Sasha skims fingertips over the spines, tapping absently. A book snaps at him grumpily; Sasha apologizes with a long slow stroke down the binding. It shivers and settles back into place with a sigh.

Furdew’s _Compendium of Essential Transformations_ looks promising. Sasha flips through the pages, most of his attention on the notes scribbled in the margins in bright blue ink. Not for the first time, Sasha wishes that wizards had adopted the practice of putting indexes, or at least a table of contents, in their books.

Sasha’s fingers pause. He turns a few pages back, and takes a second look at the spell outlined in spidery handwriting. That … that could work. Sasha pulls over a scroll and a quill and starts copying down the incantation and wand movements, making a note to copy both the author’s description and the annotations in the margins.

 

There aren’t many places to practice underwater spellwork in Hogwarts unless one actually ventures into the Black Lake itself, which—Sasha’s doing that in a few days, and that’s one time too many for his own comfort level. Which doesn’t leave him with that many alternative options.

Nicky stares at Sasha for a minute. “You realize that the Prefects’ bath is just for Prefects, right?”

“I know, but I need this for Tournament,” Sasha says. “And I think, hey, my boyfriend a Prefect, maybe he can help, you know?”

 

Sasha doesn’t know what he was expecting the Prefects’ bath to look like, but a swimming pool was not what he had in mind. “Now I see why you not tell everyone,” he says, stripping down. Nicky does not follow suit. “Is good to have secre—ack!”

Sasha comes up sputtering, blinking water out of his eyes. Nicky throws his head back and laughs. “You pay for that,” Sasha warns, heaving himself back onto the edge of the pool. He digs his wand out of the pile of robes and tips his chin.

He breathes out the incantation, cringing as the cool film spreads over his face and expands. For a moment, he panics as it cuts off his air. The moment passes; the bubble inflates. The water laps at his knees. Sasha slips forward, and then crouches down to fully submerge.

It takes him a few seconds to remember to test the breathing thing.

 

Sasha does a rudimentary job with the drying charms, letting his hair drip dry. He shivers when stray droplets hit the back of his neck and roll down his spine. Nicky doesn’t let Sasha turn off toward Ravenclaw Tower, instead tugging Sasha to the dungeon stairs by the wrist.

Nicky doesn’t say anything as he ushers Sasha into the Slytherin common room, especially given the attention from other Slytherins they get as Sasha ducks out of the tunnel. The ongoing rumor is non-Slytherins have never gained entrance for centuries, but Sasha has _intimate_ knowledge of just how false that rumor is. And he’s far from the first outsider to earn an invitation just this school year.

The spiraling descent to Nicky’s dorm is familiar, but this time the green-tinted glow from the windows isn’t nearly as comforting, not with the knowledge of what lives in the lake. Nicky flicks Sasha a glance when Sasha flinches from a larger shadow in the water. Nicky’s lips tighten, but he doesn’t say anything until they’re in the room he shares with the other fifth-year boys.

“You’re jumping at shadows, Alex. What aren’t you telling me?”

Sasha pulls Nicky against his side and tips them both into the warm embrace of Nicky’s four-poster. Nicky curls into Sasha’s bulk, one chilly palm snuck up beneath Sasha’s shirt. “The Second Task is in the lake,” Sasha murmurs against Nicky’s hair. “There are _mermaids_ in the lake.”

Nicky hums thoughtfully. He’s Swedish; their tales of mermaids are different. But he’s not unfamiliar with the old tales, the ones that haunt Sasha’s dreams.

 

The morning of the Second Task is bright and sunny, a rare reprieve from Scotland’s usual gray dreariness this time of year. Sasha’s woken up in a cold sweat each night, his sleep disturbed by nightmares that slip away from his waking memory.

He clutches his wand tight in his hand, fingering the length of cord attaching it to his wrist. Sasha hasn’t spoken to Zhenya since the First Task; he doesn’t know if Zhenya figured out the clue or not. Knowing Zhenya’s obsession with magical creatures, though, Sasha thinks it’s a safe bet to assume Zhenya recognized Mermish.

There are stands set up for the other students around the west side of the Black Lake, next to a short pier extending into the water. The heads of school wait at the edge of the lake; Gretzky’s hardly able to be missed in the bright orange robes he’s donned for the occasion.

“Champions,” he announces, “the Second Task awaits you. You will have one hour to retrieve what has been taken from you, by whatever means you can. Should you fail, you know the consequence.”

Sasha still has no idea what item he’s expected to find at the bottom of the lake, but vaguely hopes the merfolk have been gracious enough to protect it from water damage. He steps up to the edge first, as the lowest-scoring Champion in the First Task, and tries to clear his mind in preparation.

Mike’s watch, Muggle-made and waterproof, blinks at him from his opposite wrist. One hour, and one hour only.

He casts the Bubble-Head Charm just as Headmaster Gretzky sounds the bell, and dives.

The water is fucking _freezing,_ but Sasha knows better than to cast a warming charm. The water would just leech away the warmth faster than his magic could provide. Instead he grits his teeth and starts swimming downward.

He sets a course for the deepest part, which for the Black Lake means near the center and just south of the castle-edge cliff. It also means Sasha has to avoid a forest of tall kelp and whatever else might be hiding among the dark strands.

A cloud passes over the surface and the water darkens. Sasha tenses, the horror of his dreams brushing over his subconscious. But the dim light does return, and he swims onward.

Sasha can just see the lakebed beyond the kelp when something wraps around his ankle and yanks him to a stop. He shrieks and kicks back, flailing blindly against the hold. The grindylow spins away, long fingers weakly trying and failing to grasp whatever crosses its path.

Sasha has to stop and suck in long breaths and wait for his heart to settle again before he can begin moving again. Now he’s on high alert, scanning the gradually darkening depths for other would-be attackers. Mike’s watch glows green, the numbers slowly ticking down.

 

The mervillage is open, with a clearly visible path to what’s probably the center of it. Sasha looks up from rounding a corner and stops dead in the water. Bubbles escape his mouth in a startled shout of dismay.

Three bodies float in the middle of the square, ropes tying their feet and waists to heavy stones half-sunk into the sand. Sasha notes the far right is Crosby; the middle a boy who looks like he could be related to Poulin. But his focus is on the unconscious form of Lars Nicklas Bäckström, swaying with the currents. And he is unconscious, because Sasha’s intimately aware of what he looks like sleeping.

None of the various merfolk—who look nothing like the _rusalka_ haunting Sasha’s nightmares—make any move to stop Sasha when he approaches. His fingers skid over the ropes, unable to grasp the heavy, rough surface. A half-powered cutting charm, though, slices through them easily enough, and Nicky floats aimlessly in the water.

Sasha glances around. The merfolk watch with unblinking eyes. “They safe?” he asks, gesturing at the other two boys.

He gets a nod from a mermaid, and that’s enough for him.

Sasha doesn’t hesitate to kick off toward the surface. Nicky is dead weight in his arms, but the water helps. And he’s warm to the touch, so it’s a spell keeping him under. Sasha no longer pays any attention to the time, just strains to reach the surface without losing hold of Nicky.

They break the water to cheers, and Sasha tiredly swims them over to the pier, which is thankfully now lower to the water than when he dove in. Magic’s convenient. Nicky’s still unconscious when Sasha gets him up on the pier; the spell must be timed.

Sasha glances at his watch; he’s well within the required timeframe. Six minutes left, so maybe Nicky will wake up then. Sasha accepts a towel from a nearby Hufflepuff, slinging it around his shoulders. A second towel goes under Nicky’s head where it rests in Sasha’s lap, and a third gently wipes Nicky’s face clear of clinging water droplets.

Mike’s watch beeps. Nicky doesn’t move. He isn’t breathing, either. And the look on Gretzky’s face when he reaches them is anything but comforting. Sasha glances down at Nicky, and starts panicking.

Healer Kariya reaches them before Gretzky does, bodily moving the student volunteer with her stack of towels out of the way and dropping to his knees next to Sasha. “Breathe, Ovechkin,” he instructs. “You’re no use if you have a panic attack. If you control yourself, you can stay.”

Kariya starts casting diagnostic spells, one or two of which Sasha recognizes from when he hurt his shoulder falling off his broom two years ago. But the others are unfamiliar, and the worry doesn’t ease when Kariya’s face creases.

 

There’s a boom and a rush of water off to the side, and the student section, now drenched in lake water, goes wild. Sasha ignores the commotion, stroking Nicky’s sopping curls away from his unnaturally still face. “He not breathing,” he whispers.

“He’s reacting badly to the bewitchment,” Kariya mutters, his wand never ceasing motion.

Kariya starts casting again as Sasha’s heart stops and he folds over Nicky’s head in his lap. Someone’s making high keening noises in the background, and he dimly realizes it’s him when strong hands gently but inexorably pull him up. Sasha twists against their hold, but Gretzky doesn’t let him go.

“Alex, listen to me!” Sasha stares blankly upward, not-seeing. All he can see is Nicky, floating in the water. Nicky, Nicky, Nicky.

Sasha barely registers the slap, but the stinging pain hurtles him into the present. “He’s not dead. He’s not dying. He will be fine once we untangle the charm.”

“You promise?” Sasha croaks out. His fingers are still carding through Nicky’s hair, tucking it behind his ears and petting over his still-rounded cheeks. He can’t—

“He will be fine,” Gretzky promises. “But we need you to let go of him so your magic doesn’t tangle it further.”

Healer Kariya slips one large palm beneath Nicky’s head; Gretzky pulls Sasha backward. Nicky looks so small, lying on the pier. Kariya parts Nicky’s robes, slipping a palm beneath Nicky’s standard-issue jumper. Sasha wants to protest—Nicky hates people touching him—when a glittering arc of teal jumps from Kariya’s wand to Nicky’s mouth and disappears.

A beat passes.

Nicky’s body jerks; Kariya tips him to his side. Nicky coughs, retching up lake water and sucking in heaving breaths. Kariya backs away as Sasha practically dives forward. Green eyes focus on Sasha’s face, and Nicky reaches up to slide a thumb along Sasha’s cheekbone. “You’re crying.”

Sasha doesn’t even dignify that with an answer; he just gathers up Nicky in his arms and buries his sobs in the younger boy’s shoulder. Nicky’s arms close around Sasha’s ribs, holding him just as tightly.

The tidal wave of noise from the direction of the stands abruptly quiets. Sasha opens his eyes; the wall of shimmering air confirms the presence of a shield charm, probably combined with a powerful _Muffliato._ Nicky shifts in Sasha’s arms and Sasha prepares to let go, but Nicky just sighs and burrows further into Sasha’s hold, seemingly content to be held for the time being.

A touch to Sasha’s shoulder startles him. Nicky grumbles against Sasha’s neck, breath tickling Sasha’s ear. “Not to intrude on your … moment,” Healer Kariya says, “but Mr. Bäckström needs to be taken back to the hospital wing for further evaluation.”

Nicky stills, and then lets out a tiny noise of dismay. Sasha slowly eases back enough to look Healer Kariya in the eyes. “He need to do _now?_ ” Sasha asks.

“If you want to be sure you aren’t going to suddenly fall into a coma from any possible lingering effects,” Kariya says with a raised eyebrow, looking squarely at Nicky, “yes.”

Nicky’s hands make fists in the material of Sasha’s shirt. Sasha presses a hard kiss to Nicky’s wet hair. He licks away the taste of lake from his lips. The shield charm is semi-transparent, and Sasha can see Zhenya’s worried face staring at him, one lanky arm wrapped around Crosby’s shoulders. The Hufflepuff seems content to be practically snuggled by Zhenya, but even _he_ looks worried. And Crosby, despite Sasha’s best efforts, isn’t exactly among Sasha’s friends.

“Okay,” Sasha says, “we go to hospital wing.” Sasha kneels back, reluctantly letting go of Nicky, and gets to his feet. He pulls Nicky up, gently, and then scoops the younger boy into his arms. Nicky yelps and loops an arm around Sasha’s neck in an instinctive grab for balance.

Headmaster Gretzky raises his eyebrows. “You haven’t gotten your results, Mr. Ovechkin.”

Sasha stares at him, and shifts Nicky’s weight pointedly. Nicky squirms, clearly uncomfortable with being carried. “Nicky is more important, Headmaster. You understand.”

“I do.”

Gretzky lowers the shield and starts shooing curious students back to their seats. “I believe it’s time for our Champions to be judged—”

 

Kariya walks quickly, but Sasha keeps up easily enough, even carrying a protesting—and growing more irritated with every step—Nicky. “Sasha, put me down. I can walk just _fine._ I’m fine, you lump of overbearing mother hen—”

Kariya finally has enough, turning to point his wand at the pair of them. “Bäckström, you can either put up and be carried, or you can be immobilized and levitated. Your choice.”

Nicky glares, but his fingers tighten in the front of Sasha’s shirt. Kariya’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t comment. It’s probably a good thing he doesn’t, because Sasha wouldn’t put it past Nicky to hex him right now. Sasha’s _definitely_ going to get an earful once Kariya’s out of earshot about treating Nicky like an invalid.

 

The hospital wing is blandly white and sterile, even with the high ceilings every room in Hogwarts seems to have. Healer Kariya directs Sasha to an open bed somewhat tucked away in a corner, where Nicky finally squirms free and drops to the mattress. His robes make a wet sound when he moves; his curls flattened against his neck.

Sasha sits in the convenient chair to the side of the bed. The adrenaline rush is fading, he thinks, staring at his trembling hands. He clenches them into fists and rests them in his lap. Mike’s watch glows accusingly at him from his wrist. Sasha’s wand jabs him in the ribs; he ignores it.

Nicky’s robes land with a _plop_ on the stone floor. Sasha glances over at him. Green eyes look Sasha over, considering. Nicky’s lips thin; the always-present bruising beneath his eyes more visible against pale, pale skin. “You didn’t know they took me?”

“They say they take thing. _What we took,_ not _who_ we took.” Sasha’s hands are still trembling. The hospital wing is cold, and his clothes are wet. Nicky’s still soaked through, too. “If I know is you …” he trails off. If he had known the Tournament would involve risking Nicky’s life, Sasha would’ve never put his name in the fucking Goblet. He doesn’t know how to tell Nicky that, though.

Healer Kariya clears his throat. They both look at him. “There’s a shower at the end of the wing; no other students will be using it right now.” He hands Sasha a stack of clothing, “towels for both of you, and hospital pyjamas that should fit well enough for Mr. Ovechkin, if you insist on staying. See me if you need them resized.”

He waits pointedly until Sasha gets to his feet, clutching the bundle of cloth. “I’ll be quick, Nicky,” Sasha promises. He hesitates, leans in. Nicky tilts his chin up, an offering. Sasha brushes a kiss to the corner of Nicky’s mouth, just a soft brush of lips. A reassurance.

It’s once he’s beneath the warm water that Sasha lets himself really cry. Not the frantic tears of relief that had squeezed out when Nicky had opened his eyes, but great heaving sobs. He presses his knuckles to his lips and lets the wall support him as he shakes apart.

 

When Sasha emerges, red-eyed and scrubbed clean of lake water, Nicky’s been aggressively tucked into bed and practically pinned there by Kariya’s stern glare. Nicky’s cheeks redden when he catches Sasha’s eye. “I forget soap on face?” Sasha asks, mentally begging Nicky to ignore any signs of his breakdown.

Nicky’s eyes flick down. Sasha glances down; the hospital pajama bottoms don’t fit him all that well, but they’re still around his hips, so he’s not sure why Nicky’s blushing. Sasha’s not even showing any skin.

Sasha doesn’t even get to Nicky’s bedside before he’s swarmed by Mike and Sanya, who talk over each other in a mix of Russian and English too jumbled for Sasha to understand either of them. “Guys, guys!”

“You won, and you’re tied with Poulin for second!” Mike beats Sanya. “Malkin’s ahead, but only by a point.”

“Oh.” Sasha—Sasha doesn’t have it in him to muster up more than that. Nicky’s watching from the bed. He looks as exhausted as Sasha feels. Healer Kariya’s disappeared back to his office.

Sanya and Mike don’t really let go of Sasha, but they manage a group shuffle over to Nicky’s bed. Mike drops into the chair, but scooches it closer with a scrape of metal over stone. Sanya pushes Sasha on the bed around Nicky’s midsection, sprawling across the foot of the bed himself.

“You not dying?” he asks Nicky.

Nicky shakes his head. “Healer Kariya says I should stay overnight, but should be fine.”

Sasha draws in a shaky breath. “What went wrong?” he asks. “If I know they take you into lake, I never—”

“They asked,” Nicky interrupts. “The spell they used pointed me out as your … your most important person, and they asked my permission. They didn’t know— _I_ didn’t know—that my magic would react that way.”

Behind Sasha, Sanya makes a small noise. His face is carefully blank when Sasha looks back, though. Mike’s easier to read. His dark hair flops over his face as he rolls his eyes. “We knew you were head-over-heels before you two even got together. I mean, you were gonna ask Nicky to the Yule Ba—ow!”

Sanya’s ridiculously flexible, and he kicks hard. Mike pouts and rubs his side. “That’s gonna bruise, you asshole.”

Sasha ignores his friends, catching up one of Nicky’s hands instead and holding it. “Will you go to ball with me?” he asks. It’s not like the entire fucking school _doesn’t_ know his feelings for Nicky at this point.

Nicky licks his lips. “I can’t dance.”

“Neither can Ovi,” Mike butts in. “You can be terrible together. Ow! Fuck you, Sema!”

Nicky tugs his hand back, and Sasha feels a little ball knot itself in his intestines. But then Nicky’s fingers are back, intertwined with Sasha’s own. “Yes,” Nicky says. Mike and Sanya whoop and cackle in the background. Nicky tightens his grip on Sasha’s hand; Sasha squeezes back.

Sasha’s face hurts from smiling when he falls asleep that night.

 

Sasha’s a nervous wreck the afternoon of the Yule Ball. His robes are wrinkled; his hair won’t lie flat; he worries at his nails until they’re bitten down to the quick. Sanya takes one look at Sasha after he gets back from his Ancient Runes class and calls for reinforcements.

Jay Beagle’s about as steady as they come—a good quality in a Hufflepuff—and is plenty prepared when it comes to shoving friends into showers with orders not to come out until Sasha’s calmer. He’s also a dab hand at household charms, somehow managing to unwrinkle Sasha and Sanya’s robes, add a few centimeters to the hem of Sanya’s dress robes, and rustle up a proper undersuit from the depths of Sasha’s wardrobe in the time it takes Sasha to wash.

“You’re a magician,” Sasha praises. Jay just blinks. Right, wizard-raised.

“Give me your hands,” Jay demands. Sasha bemusedly holds them out. Sasha’s right thumbnail starts a new sluggish trail of blood; Jay winces. Jay mutters under his breath, tapping his wand to each ragged nailbed. Sasha doesn’t catch the incantation, but his cuticles close up, nails evening out.

“Lifesaver,” Sanya says, examining his newly lengthened and unwrinkled robes.

Sasha catches a glimpse of himself in the wardrobe mirror as Sanya dresses. The sky-blue robes are more formal than he usually wears outside classes—but dress robes aren’t exactly everyday wear. He looks … not himself. Sanya purses his lips, and then ruffles Sasha’s wet hair before casting a drying charm. Sasha’s hair fluffs out automatically. Better, Sasha thinks. More … him.

 

Sanya leans against the wall, occasionally laughing at Sasha as he paces the flagstones in front of the Slytherin dorm entrance. Sasha runs his hands over his robes again, swallowing nervously. He shouldn’t be this nervous; Nicky’d said yes when he’d asked. But Sasha’s stomach is still full of Billywigs.

Sasha doesn’t hear the wall slide open, but he can see Sanya’s eyebrows go up, staring over Sasha’s shoulder. Sasha pivots, and then has to take a moment to simply stare.

Nicky looks … “Красивый,” Sasha breathes. Nicky’s hair is bright gold beneath the steady glow of the enchanted torches, and neatly brushed back to tuck behind his ears. He’s left the gel out of it for once, and Sasha sends a short prayer to Merlin in thanks. His dress robes are a shimmery silvery gray, and the material looks soft to the touch.

Nicky doesn’t know Russian, Sasha knows, but he’s picked up on a few words. And Sasha’s emotions must be written all over his face, because red blooms high on Nicky’s cheeks and he ducks his head for a tiny moment. Sasha distantly registers Sanya’s huff as the other boy leaves, but Sasha’s attention stays on Nicky.

Sasha takes two steps closer, and executes the old-fashioned bow his mother made him perfect. When he raises his head, Nicky’s eyeing Sasha’s outstretched hand suspiciously, lower lip caught between his teeth. Sasha’s about to drop his hand when Nicky comes to a decision and steps up to accept Sasha’s proffered arm.

Sasha leads them up the stairs and down to the entrance hall. Nicky’s arm is warm and solid atop his own, fingers firmly grasping the material of Sasha’s dress robes. The majority of the of-age student body is congregated in the Great Hall already, waiting for the Champions to arrive.

Sasha hears Nicky’s quick intake of breath beside him. “You want do this?” Sasha asks. “Is lot of attention.”

Nicky’s grip tightens, and he visibly steels himself. Sasha recognizes that determined look from more than one Quidditch match, and it never bodes well for the opposing players, Sasha himself included. “You asked me to the Ball, knowing what people say about you,” Nicky says. “You dance with me tonight.”

Sasha stops, tugging Nicky to a stop with him. They’re not yet visible to the student body. Sasha cups Nicky’s jaw with one hand. “Want to kiss you,” he murmurs.

A tiny smile flickers at the corners of Nicky’s lips. He tips his head up. “Then do it.”

Sasha dips down, presses his lips to Nicky’s. His hand slides around to the small of Nicky’s back, bypassing the meters of fabric between them to hold Nicky closer. Nicky comes willingly. Nicky’s fingernails would certainly be leaving crescent-shaped marks if Sasha’s robes weren’t in the way.

Sasha draws back to catch his breath. “I have to tell you something,” he says. He searches Nicky’s face for … something. Nicky’s eyes narrow. “I love you, even though you such bad dancer.”

Nicky laughs, dropping his head to Sasha’s shoulder. “I know,” Nicky says, “I know. Sasha, you so obvious. Greenie and Sema know. Now the whole school will know you’re _mine._ ”

Sasha presses a kiss to those golden curls before he squeezes Nicky tight. “We have to start dance,” he says.

“Mrgh,” is Nicky’s muffled reply.

 

They make their entrance together, Nicky on Sasha’s arm. Poulin looks stunning in her red and white dress robes, and Zhenya in his Koldovstoretz silvers. Sasha’s not surprised to see Crosby standing beside Zhenya, dressed in formal blacks. He is surprised when Crosby reaches over and extends a hand to Nicky. “I’m glad you suffered no ill-effects,” Crosby says quietly.

Nicky accepts the handshake, relaxing enough to give Crosby a tight smile. “Thank you.”

Sasha leans over to Poulin and asks in an undertone, “Where your date?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Late, apparently.”

“A wizard is never late,” P.K. Subban announces, stepping up next to Poulin. “He arrives precisely when he means to.”

Subban’s robes are a shade of deep purple Sasha wishes he could pull off. He also somehow manages not to clash with Poulin’s own robes. Sasha chalks it up to magic. The Gryffindor’s only a fourth-year, but Sasha’s been on the receiving end of a well-aimed Bludger thanks to Subban more than once.

Poulin slips her hand into the crook of Subban’s elbow and looks around. “We’re all here, so I guess it’s time to start the dance?” she confirms.

 

The Hall doesn’t go quiet when they wind their way through the gathered students, but there is a noticeable rise in murmured conversation. Students do part, just a little, to let them through to where the heads of schools are gathered.

Headmaster Gretzky gestures to the band, and then sweeps his arm out to the Champions and their partners. “Champions, the floor is yours.”

Sasha pivots to face Nicky, takes Nicky’s hand in his, and then panics. “Who leads?” he hisses. Nicky’s eyes widen. Well, this is going to be interesting. Sasha places his other hand at Nicky’s hip and hopes they manage to get through this first dance.

The music swells, and Sasha’s grateful there’s only two other couples to keep track of. He and Nicky manage a shuffling facsimile of a waltz, trying not to knock each other’s knees or step on each other’s toes. They get better after the first few awkward steps. Nicky gets a fit of the giggles when Poulin and Subban swing past. His cheeks flush again, and Sasha stares, entranced.

The dance ends all too soon, in Sasha’s opinion. Zhenya looks relieved; Crosby even moreso. Sasha plants his hand at the small of Nicky’s back when they take the steps to their places at the High Table. Nicky side-eyes him, but apparently doesn’t mind the admittedly possessive gesture all that much.

From the High Table, Sasha scans the crowd for Sanya’s green robes, and nearly skips right over Mike leading a pretty Beauxbatons girl onto the dance floor. “Did you know Greenie bring a date?” he asks Nicky.

Nicky shakes his head. “I didn’t know he could _dance,_ ” Nicky says slowly. Sure enough, Mike’s spinning the two of them around the dance floor, stepping carefully but competently in time with the music. His date’s robes swirl out as she spins, laughing.

Sasha catches up Nicky’s hand and quickly presses a kiss to the back of it. “You prettier,” he says solemnly, just to watch the red creep over Nicky’s cheeks and down the back of his neck.

Nicky snatches his hand away and refuses to look at Sasha. But Sasha can see the pleased tilt to his lips, and the blush is still obvious. So Nicky’s embarrassed, but not mad. Sasha smiles, not caring who sees. It’s not like the entire school doesn’t know by now that Sasha’s in love. Sasha pulled Nicky out of the _lake._

The song ends and Mike twirls his date into a sweeping bow before they leave the dance floor. Sasha watches, curious, as Mike leans down to talk with her. She smiles at him and heads for the desserts and punch while Mike makes his way toward Nicky and Sasha.

“She too pretty for your ugly face,” Sasha teases.

Mike just grins at him. “She said ‘yes,’ didn’t she?” he says easily. He props his elbows on the High Table.

“How’d you even meet?” Nicky asks.

“Sema and I helped Ovi with First Task, right? And so we were in the library a lot. And the Beauxbatons students aren’t really here on vacation—they have to study and keep up with their exams and shit—so Shannon was in the library too. And …” Mike flushes a little here, almost shy, “… we bumped into each other. She’s so cool. Wants to go pro after school, y’know?”

Well, _that_ just caught Sasha’s attention. “She plays Quidditch, too?” And apparently is _good,_ if she’s looking at going pro after graduating.

“Yeah, she’s a Keeper.”

Sasha flicks a glance at Nicky, who stares back at him blankly and shrugs. Sasha’s pretty sure he knows who this girl is, but has to confirm, “ _Szabados_ is your date?”

“You know her?” Mike actually looks surprised, like he doesn’t know Sasha’s keeping track of the Quidditch prospects. As a Chaser, Sasha won’t have to actually compete _against_ Szabados for a spot on a team, but it always pays off to know who he might be facing. And from what he’s heard, she’s one of the best up and coming Keepers.

“Know _of_ her,” Sasha stresses. He doesn’t get the chance to elaborate before the topic of discussion sets a goblet of punch in front of Mike and hands each of them a piece of treacle tart.

She shakes back her masses of hair and tucks a stray curl behind her ear. “Hi, I’m Shannon! You did _great_ in the First Task,” she says to Sasha, “and I hope you’re okay after the Lake?” looking at Nicky.

“Thank you! Your champion also do well,” Sasha says. Because Poulin _did_ do well, even injured. Although … Sasha still doesn’t know how well she did in the Second Task because, well, he was a little focused on Nicky at that point. Nicky, who looks a little strained around the eyes.

Shannon apparently can read a room, because she changes the subject quickly. “Mike was telling me you’re also looking at going pro after Hogwarts. What do you think of—”

Sasha can talk Quidditch all day, and Nicky’s relaxing more with each passing minute. Sasha places a hand on Nicky’s thigh beneath the tablecloth. Nicky laces their fingers together and squeezes gently. _I’m okay._

Sanya joins them soon enough, bearing gifts of pasties and more punch, this time laced with Firewhiskey strong enough to make Sasha cough and Mike’s eyes water. Shannon downs hers like a pro, and Sasha not-so-quietly wonders aloud how Mike managed to convince her he was worth her time. Mike just rolls his eyes. Sanya snickers openly.

Their group migrates from the High Table to one of the smaller tables. Sasha makes sure he steals the seats with the best view of the High Table for himself and Nicky—if he has to go do something Champion-y, this way he can at least keep an eye on what Zhenya and Poulin are doing. For now, though, it lets him see just how awkward Zhenya’s flirting game is.

“That’s _fourth time_ he’s stretched his arm over Crosby’s shoulder,” Sasha hisses. Nicky just looks unimpressed. Crosby, though, seems into it. Sasha does _not_ understand what the Hufflepuff sees in Zhenya, but … Sasha tugs Nicky in close and busses a kiss against his hair. Nicky wrinkles his nose. Nicky lets himself lean into Sasha for a brief moment before wiggling free.

 

Sasha does get Nicky out on the floor for another dance. This time they’re not in the spotlight, though. And this time, Nicky lets Sasha pull him close and sway together in a tiny circle. It’s nice, dancing almost cheek-to-cheek.

The music changes to something quicker. Sasha waits for Nicky to tug them off the dance floor, back to where Sanya and Mike and Shannon are watching with barely disguised laughter. Instead, Nicky steps in closer and tips his face up. “You want to put on a show?” he asks.

Sasha nearly trips over his own robes. “What you have in mind?”

“Spin me out?”

Sasha gets a good grip on Nicky’s fingers and waits for a break in the crowd. Nicky spins out with a cut-off huff of laughter. His robes flare out, dark blue lining exposed, and Sasha’s breath catches. Nicky’s Slytherin, and the silver is one of his House colors. Blue, though, blue is a _Ravenclaw_ color.

Nicky spins back into Sasha’s arms, eyes glinting. He knows, Sasha realizes. Knows that Sasha’s put the pieces together, that Nicky had _known_ Sasha was going to ask him to the Ball in time to order those exact colors for his dress robes. Maybe Muggleborn or Muggle-raised students won’t catch on, but … from _Nicky,_ that’s—

“How long you gonna let me wait before you tell me you love me? You want me forever?” Sasha murmurs.

Nicky’s sly smile is all the answer he needs. Nicky doesn’t _need_ words, not like Sasha does. Instead, he does things like this, all but declaring his intentions to the world.

 _Merlin,_ Sasha loves him.

Sasha keeps his eyes open when he kisses Nicky, ready to pull back if Nicky signals his discontent. Nicky doesn’t. He actually relaxes and brings up a hand to thread through the hair at Sasha’s nape, meeting Sasha the rest of the way. Nicky’s eyes close; Sasha’s hand finds that little dip at the small of Nicky’s back; the other cups Nicky’s jaw.

The rest of the world fades away. Sasha ignores that they’re kissing publicly, in the middle of the Yule Ball dance floor, surrounded by his classmates. All that he cares about is kissing the boy in his arms, who’s kissing him back.

 

“Mr. Ovechkin! Mr. Bäckström!” Well, someone had to ruin the moment. And it looks like Professor Roenick is going to be that someone. Nicky pulls away until there’s a respectable distance between them. Sasha keeps his arm around Nicky’s waist.

“Public displays of affection are discouraged at Hogwarts,” Roenick says stiffly. “If you’re finished with that … display, you’re wanted at the High Table.”

Merlin’s balls. Sasha closes his eyes for a moment. But his name was drawn out of the Goblet, and so he and Nicky make their way back up to the High Table. Sanya smirks at them, and Mike and Shannon try to outdo each other wolf-whistling as they pass their table. Sasha wishes he could get away with flipping them all off.

Nicky does it for him, Sasha’s body hiding the gesture from the watching professors. Sanya cackles in response.

Poulin and Subban push through the crowd to join them. Zhenya and Crosby haven’t moved from their seats except to get food; Crosby’s maybe the most awkward dancer Sasha’s ever seen, and Zhenya’s uncoordinated enthusiasm is painful to watch.

The heads of school are waiting at the High Table. Ouellette has a smile playing at the corner of her mouth when she looks at Poulin. “As a special thanks from us, for your participation and sacrifice so far, we have arranged a little surprise for the three of you. An early Yule gift, if you will.”

Sasha’s confused, but follows Gretzky through the side door, Nicky at his side. Inside the room, the conversation halts, and the group of people around the fire turn.

“Mama?” Zhenya’s soft exclamation of disbelief breaks the silence. He crosses the room in three strides, bending down to enfold his mother. Mama Malkin just about disappears behind her son’s voluminous robes.

Sasha squeezes Nicky’s hip, lets go, and embraces his own mother. Tatyana presses a kiss to his cheek, then pats his side. Sasha lets her go, and gets swept into a hug by his father. Mikhail beams at him. “We’ve been keeping up with the news in the Wizarding papers—your mother got a subscription to the Prophet, even—but it’s not the same as being here.”

Sasha hugs tighter. “How did you get into Hogwarts, Papa? There’s so many protections to keep Muggles out.”

Mikhail laughs. “I’m not the first parent to be let in. I have a charm to let me bypass the protections, don’t worry.”

“Sasha,” Tatyana’s voice snaps him back to attention, “aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Oh. Sasha lets out a nervous breath. He steps back to Nicky’s side, facing his parents, and laces his fingers through Nicky’s. “Mama, Papa, this is Nicklas Bäckström, of Sweden. Nicky, these are my parents, Tatyana and Mikhail.”

Tatyana’s sharp eyes scan Nicky head-to-toe. Nicky shifts against Sasha’s side, and Sasha sees his mother visibly pause. He looks down, and Nicky’s sleeve has slipped back just enough to show that blue lining. And Tatyana’s seen it. Her face softens just enough. “You can call Mama,” she says quietly in English, extending her hand.

 

Their families are apparently staying in Hogsmeade. Sasha’s quietly grateful to the headmasters’ thoughtfulness in bringing them to Hogwarts. He’s also overwhelmed at the thought of them watching him compete in the Tournament. “I don’t want my parents to see me fail,” he whispers into the silence of Nicky’s four-poster.

Nicky hums and strokes a palm over Sasha’s shoulder. They’re both still dressed in their robes, the curtains drawn about them. Sasha’s wand sits crossed with Nicky’s on the bedside table, the fir and beech near alike in color. “Are you quitting?”

“What? No!”

“Then they won’t see you fail.” Nicky drops the words into the quiet like placing stones into a foundation. Unshakable. Resolute. Quiet, firm belief in Sasha. Sasha shudders beneath the weight of Nicky’s faith.

 

It’s strange to go back to classes. The Tournament’s only been going on for two weeks, but it’s taken over Sasha’s life. Mike notices his distraction in Potions, carefully nudging Sasha’s hands out of the way to drop in the Alihotsy stems one at a time rather than the handfuls Sasha’s still clutching. “Dude, I do _not_ need to lose any more eyebrows. The last time it grew in wonky.”

Sasha mentally shakes himself and starts dissecting the Lionfish, carefully avoiding nicking his fingers on the spines. “Are we supposed to extract venomous spines, too?” he asks in an undertone.

Mike shrugs. “I mean, that could be good for bonus points. Extra ingredients for other potions, right?”

Sasha angles his knife to slide up beneath the fish’s backbone and flips the skin over, neatly separating the skin from the body. He separates out the fins from the spines, and sets them aside for Mike to dice. The spines he carefully digs out and sets out in a row.

Mike stirs in the Lionfish fins and the potion burbles threateningly. Sasha readies himself to cast a shielding charm. The liquid boils and thrashes, and turns an alarming shade of bright blue, before an enormous bubble pops and the surface cools to a deep indigo. Mike checks his notes. “Well, that’s _supposed_ to happen, so awesome.”

They clean up their station as the potion simmers; Sasha finds a jar tall enough for the spines and sets it on Professor Roy’s desk. He gets an eyebrow raise and “Five points each to Ravenclaw and Gryffindor” in thanks.

Their Stomach-Settling Potion isn’t the best in the class—that goes to Brent Burns and Sanya this round—but it’s more than passable. Roy holds it up to the light, examining the indigo fluid. It bubbles in its little flask, popping every so often as it settles. “Healer Kariya will be happy to get these.”

 

By supper, Sasha’s wound tighter than a clockspring. He chokes down his meal, tapping his foot until enough time has passed to make a reasonable exit. Sasha’s nearly reached the Quidditch pitch when Sanya ambushes him. “Flying out the jitters, Sasha?”

Sasha breathes out slowly, willing his heart to calm. Sanya doesn’t even use a soft-foot spell to move about; he’s just naturally sneaky. “It’s better than conjuring plates to shatter them,” Sasha admits. “Less of a mess for the House Elves to clean up.”

Sanya pads over the grass beside Sasha, uncaring when his robes gather the wet and grow damp. The broomshed is easily opened with an _Alohamora,_ and soon Sasha’s taken to the skies. The night breeze feels good against his face. Sasha’s never as at ease as when he flies.

Sanya floats beside him in the air; he stretches up and back, thighs gripping the broom between them. He quirks a grin at Sasha, and rolls sideways on his broom to tag Sasha’s shoulder. “Tag!”

Sasha gapes at his friend for a split-second before giving chase. They streak through the stands and over the pitch—which is a proper Quidditch pitch again. Sasha finally catches the tail of Sanya’s robes and they slow to hover high in the air once more.

Sasha stretches full-length on his broom, head resting on the twigs. “My parents are here. Gretzky invited them to watch the Third Task.”

Sanya pillows his head on his folded arms and watches Sasha. “You don’t want them to watch?”

Sasha hums, resumes staring up at the stars. “People have died competing,” he says. “I don’t want to … they’ve been through so much already. They can’t lose me, too.”

Sanya doesn’t say anything. But Sasha thinks he understands. But for tonight, they sit and let the occasional gust rock their brooms above the Quidditch pitch below.

 

As with the previous two Tasks, Sasha has little idea of what to expect from the Third Task. This, however, is a bit more of a twist than he expected.

“Your brooms have been supplied by the Fitchburg Finches, and have been thoroughly inspected for any advantage,” Headmaster Kovalchuk says. Jagr waves brightly beside him, three Quidditch brooms lined up behind him. “The rules are fairly simple. Any touch to the earth, voluntary or not, grounds you for the Task.”

“No Unforgivables,” is Headmaster Gretzky’s contribution. His face is grave. “There will be healers onsite, but they cannot intervene until you have been grounded.”

Sasha throws a glance at his parents.  Sanya and Mike bracket them in the stands. Tatyana’s face is pale, her mouth set in careful neutrality. Mikhail is still parsing the words; Sasha can see him mouthing _Unforgivables_ to himself. Sanya leans over, probably explaining, but Sasha has to break away and focus on the headmasters again.

“You will be judged on accuracy, durability, and creativity,” Ouellette says. “It is not simply a winner-takes-all duel. However, the Task will only end when two Champions concede.”

 

Sasha double-checks his wand in its holder, running his fingertips over the smooth wood as he snugs it up against his wrist. He’s no stranger to duels, but dueling atop a broom _is_ new. Sasha unclasps his robes, shrugging out of the heavy fabric to neatly fold and set them aside. It’ll be cold without the layers, but hopefully the added maneuverability will make up for the chill.

Beside him, Zhenya’s hands are steady as he folds his own robes. “We’re friends,” Zhenya says in quiet Russian, “but that doesn’t mean I’ll take it easy on you.”

Sasha lets himself study Zhenya as a dueling opponent. Zhenya’s a good flier, quick to turn despite his ungainly appearance. Sasha hasn’t dueled Zhenya in years—has no idea of the spells Zhenya’s capable of throwing at him—but he knows Zhenya’s far more powerful and creative than he lets on. His slow English is only a byproduct of learning the language late, not an indication of his intelligence.

“I won’t pull any punches,” Sasha promises. He can’t. Not if he wants even a _chance_ at winning this Task.

 

The whistle blows. Zhenya circles; Poulin streaks up; Sasha dives.

Sasha skims the ground just above the grass, carefully tucking his toes into the twigs of his broom. It handles differently than his Thunderbolt, just enough that Sasha needs a few seconds to adjust. He nudges it up, rising to 10 meters, and swerves right. He can see the flashes of spellwork where Zhenya and Poulin are trading curses above him.

A stray curse streaks past in a sparking hot pink, and Sasha narrows his eyes. That … could work. He takes a minute to aim. The cutting curse catches the end of Zhenya’s broom, severing a chunk of the tail twigs and sending the other boy into a tailspin. Zhenya’s stream of epithets are audible even from here as he struggles to right his broom.

Unfortunately, Sasha’s caught Poulin’s attention. She circles higher, dropping jinxes as Sasha dodges one after another. Given her advantage, it’s not surprising when he ends up on the other side of a Jelly-Legs.

“Merlin’s balls,” Sasha mutters, trying to keep control even as his thighs refuse to grip his broom properly. He can’t remember the countercurse right away, not in time, so instead he sends up a flurry of jinxes, followed by a freezing charm that catches Poulin’s wand arm by sheer luck. She snarls at him.

Sasha mock-salutes, and casts _Incarcerous_ on his uncooperative legs to keep himself on his broom. He climbs quickly, keeping an eye on Poulin as she spits more jinxes while trying to melt the ice on her arm. Sasha’s forgotten about Zhenya, though. Hampered by his damaged broom, Zhenya remains low to the ground, but still has the power to catch Sasha’s broom with a hex that nearly tosses Sasha off despite his precautions.

Sasha spares a moment to think uncharitable thoughts about Malkin’s heritage, despite his parents’ presence in the stands. A muttered _Rictusempra_ finds its mark, though, and Zhenya’s lost to paroxysms of hysterical laughter. He nearly rolls off his broom.

Poulin’s not giving up, though. Sasha sputters as a blast of water catches him in the face, blinding him. He jerks his broom right on instinct, avoiding the freezing charm that follows the water by mere centimeters. Sasha almost feels sorry for her when his slug-vomiting charm connects in full; Poulin doubling over and helplessly caught mid-air. Sasha follows it up with an _Expelliarmus_ and catches her broom in an _Impedimenta_.

She tips forward, directing her broom downward. She spills onto the ground, hair escaping from its braid as she gasps for air in between heaves. Sasha tucks her wand into his holster to return later before scanning below for Zhenya. Zhenya’s nowhere to be seen.

There’s a shrieking whistle behind him and Sasha tips his broom on its tail to spin around. Zhenya’s close on his curse’s tail, speeding toward Sasha. Sasha summons a shield, hoping there’s enough power behind it to stand against the barrage of Zhenya’s incoming spells.

He’s near blinded as the spells ricochet off the transparent barrier in sparks of white, gold, pink, blue, green. He is _not_ expecting Zhenya himself to barrel through Sasha’s spell and actually tackle Sasha mid-air. Sasha catches the shaft of Zhenya’s broom in his ribs, and the weight of Zhenya himself sends them both spiraling toward the ground at a dizzying pace.

He can’t yank himself free. They’re hurtling downward, and the ground is approaching at an alarming pace, and Sasha _can’t get free._ His legs are still lashed to his broom. Zhenya grits out a _Petrifico_ and Sasha’s paralyzed. They’re still speeding to the ground. Sasha’s trying to remember every cushioning spell he knows, fruitlessly trying to cast wandlessly. His fingers spark, but nothing slows their descent. “Zhenya! You’re going to kill us both!”

Zhenya grunts and bears up, forcing their brooms up, a centimeter at a time. Sasha trembles as much as the spell will let him as they shudder to a halt just a meter above the ground. Zhenya lowers them a bit more, and then tips Sasha onto the grass with a thud.

Sasha breathes in the scent of grass and mud and living things, and closes his eyes. He’s lost the Task, but he’s alive to tell the tale. And he _never_ wants to repeat that experience. Sasha opens his eyes again. Zhenya dismounts with shaky legs and sits heavily in the grass beside Sasha. His face is pale, the whites of his eyes showing. He’s shaken, too, by the near-crash.

Healer Kariya hurries over to them, wand sparking with countercurses and diagnostic spells. Sasha’s limbs sprawl everywhere once they’re no longer held tight to his sides, his legs finally returned to their normal functionality. He gasps as a cooling salve pastes itself to his neck, where he hadn’t even noticed the burn appearing.

Zhenya looks ridiculous with white bandages wrapped around each finger on one hand, another taped to his cheek where Poulin’s cutting curse had gotten through. “Looks like you lost a fight,” Sasha says shakily.

“You should see the other guys,” Zhenya says, the bandages sending his smile crooked.

Sasha barks out a laugh, groaning as it jars his ribs. Kariya pauses in running a diagnostic on Sasha’s legs. “Raise your arms for me,” he says. Sasha complies—well, he _tries_ to comply—and concedes when white-hot pain flares up. “Take a deep breath.” Sasha tries, and the pain comes back.

“Broken ribs,” Kariya says flatly. “After the judging, straight to the Hospital Wing for overnight observation.”

Sasha’s not going to argue. He sits up gingerly. “Ow. Okay, ow.” There’s a hand in his face, and Sasha looks up at Poulin. She doesn’t look as pissed as Sasha would’ve expected, especially for getting hit with what Sasha considers to be one of the most unpleasant curses he’s ever experienced.

He takes her hand and winces as she levers him to his feet. “Sorry for slugs,” he manages after catching his breath.

She shrugs. “Not my idea of fun, but effective,” she says. Her arm, the one Sasha’s spell hit, is wrapped with red bandages. “Keeps the skin warm, to avoid frostbite,” she adds when she catches him looking.

Zhenya joins them, three Champions standing before the judges for their final scores. Jagr’s beaming when he steps forward to collect the now damaged brooms. “Wonderful flying, the three of you! Flexible, agile, and fast!”

Sasha scans the crowd in the stands above. He can’t see Nicky, but he knows where to find—his parents are small from here, and he can’t make out their expressions. He honestly doesn’t know if he wants to. Not after—

“Champions!” Headmaster Gretzky’s voice snaps Sasha’s attention back down to the pitch. “You have completed three Tasks—Tasks created to test your fortitude, your creativity, and your intelligence. With your final score, we will crown the winner of the Triwizard Tournament!”

The Cup gleams on its stand. The sack of Galleons sits beside it, looking far too small to hold 1000 of the coins. Sasha _knows_ it’s likely enchanted, but it’s still difficult to wrap his mind around wizard-space sometimes.

“Marie-Philip Poulin,” Bettman announces. Poulin steps forward, head held high. “You were the first Champion to touch the ground, and shall receive your scores accordingly.”

One by one, the headmasters and Jagr send up their scores: Gretzky a 9, Ouellette the same, Kovalchuk inclines his head and shoots up an 8, Jagr smiles and adds another 9. Thirty-five points, to add to her previous totals. “Marie-Philip Poulin, of Beauxbatons, finishes this Tournament at 95 points!”

Poulin waves to the roaring crowd in blue, shakes Ouellette’s hand, and steps back in line. Her smile has a twist to it, and Sasha remembers he’s tied with her.

“Alexander Ovechkin,” Bettman says. Sasha steps forward and raises his eyes to where he knows his parents are sitting. “You were the second Champion to touch the ground. Here are your scores.”

Gretzky gives Sasha an approving nod, then raises his wand; a 9 sparkles overhead. Ouellette adds a second 9, and Kovalchuk the same. Jagr grins and shoots up a 10, the first of the Tournament. _Well done,_ he mouths. “Alexander Ovechkin, of Hogwarts, finishes this Tournament at 97 points!”

The roar from the student body is overwhelming. Sasha feels a little faint. He waves, echoing Poulin, and then sketches a little bow before stepping back.

“Evgeni Malkin!” Zhenya strides forward to the applause of the Koldovstorez contingent. “You were the final Champion to touch the ground. Here are your scores.”

Gretzky shoots up a 7; Ouellette a 7 as well. Kovalchuk smiles as widely as Sasha’s ever seen him do so, and adds an 8. Jagr tilts his head and shoots up a 7. Wait. “Evgeni Malkin,” Bettman says, butchering the pronunciation _again,_ “of Koldovstoretz, finishes this Tournament at 90 points.”

Zhenya half-turns, meets Sasha’s eyes. Sasha’s sure his expression is just as dumbfounded. The noise level surges higher. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Bettman stammers out, “may I present your Triwizard Tournament winner: Alexander Ovechkin!”

Sasha takes a handful of steps forward, passing a stunned Zhenya to lift the Cup. Sasha holds in a grimace as his ribs protest; he can see Healer Kariya’s disapproving look from here, thanks. Thankfully,  he can set it back down in favor of shaking Minister Bettman’s hand. The Minister’s hand is small and clammy against Sasha’s own; he’s relieved when that’s over.

Then it’s time to shake each of the headmasters’ hands, and then time for Sasha to lose his words when Jagr congratulates him, and then one last conversation with Poulin to return her wand. “You were so good,” Sasha says honestly. “After Second Task, I think you win it all.”

Her mouth twists into a wry smile. “Not this time, I guess. You were better this round.”

And then it’s time for photos. Photos of him and Zhenya, of him and Poulin, of him and Headmaster Gretzky, with the Cup, and with all three of them—dirty, bruised, and bandaged as they are.

Sasha’s glad to be done with the photos when Gretzky and Kovalchuk team up to shoo the reporters and photographers away, promising interviews with the Champions _later._

 

Healer Kariya is not happy with the state of Sasha’s ribs, and confines him to the Hospital Wing with a healthy dose of Skele-Gro for company. Sasha chokes it down. “Why do I have to be here?” he asks plaintively.

Kariya raises an eyebrow. “You’d rather be in the dorms with hordes of classmates wishing you congratulations and not giving you a moment’s peace?”

Sasha opens his mouth to argue, and then shuts it when there’s a commotion at the door to the Hospital Wing. The commotion resolves itself into his best friends, his boyfriend, and his parents, who all pull up seats around his bed. “Sasha,” she starts, and Sasha braces himself. But she surprises him by cupping his face with both hands and pressing kisses to his cheeks. “I am proud of you,” she says in Russian. “But don’t _scare me like that again._ ”

“Yes, Mama,” Sasha promises. He looks over his mother’s shoulder, past his father’s beaming face, to where Nicky stands bracketed by Sanya and Mike. Sasha presses a kiss to his mother’s hair before she lightly pushes him away. “Hug your father,” she orders.

“Careful with my ribs,” Sasha cautions before letting Mikhail sweep him up into a hug.

“I honestly didn’t know what you were doing half the time, but you looked good doing it,” Mikhail says. “You did well, son.”

His mother pins him with a look. “Your friends have filled me in on some of the details, but I think I’d like to hear the _entire_ story, Sasha.”

“Nicky and Mike don’t know Russian,” Sasha tries.

Tatyana’s not impressed. “There are translation spells for that, even if I have to reapply them each hour.” So Sasha folds, and starts from the beginning, when he put his name in the Cup late at night, when no one was watching.

 

Healer Kariya shoos Nicky, Sanya, and Mike out of the Hospital Wing when it’s time for the goodbye feast. Sasha he keeps behind, ostensibly for another check on his still-healing ribs. Other than a quick diagnostic spell, which shows a “normal rate of healing, and you should be completely fine by tonight,” Kariya doesn’t really require Sasha to stay.

But Sasha’s parents are still sitting by his bedside. Sasha licks his lips. “Mama?” he ventures.

Kariya makes his retreat with a final warning not to do anything strenuous for the next few hours. Sasha vaguely registers the instructions. He’s more concerned with the worry lines on his father’s forehead.

Sasha sinks onto the mattress, reaches for his mother’s hand. He enfolds it in his own; his hands dwarf hers. She breathes out slowly. “You frightened us today, Sasha. When you entered the Tournament, we worried. You made your choice, and we respect it, and we’re proud of you, but it’s important you know we worried.”

“I did research,” Sasha protests. It falls flat in the air between them, though. A pitiful offering in the face of nearly dying, nearly putting his family through that grief.

“We read about the First Task, and you did so well. And then the Second Task—”

“—should we expect Nicklas for Yule this winter?” Mikhail interrupts. “You care a lot for this boy, and he for you, if your mother was right about his robes being some sort of Wizard code.”

Sasha blinks, caught off-guard. “I—I love him,” he gets out. “He usually stays at Hogwarts for the holidays, though. I can ask?”

“Do,” Tatyana says. “I want to know more about the boy you’d risk your life for.” She stands, presses a kiss to Sasha’s hair. “You’re growing up,” she says quietly, “and you will make your own decisions. But don’t forget your decisions will always come with consequences. Thankfully, the price you paid was only broken ribs.”

She leaves with a swirl of robes, Sasha still sitting on the bed. He belatedly starts to stand when his father does. “I’m glad I got to see you compete,” Mikhail says. “Your mother … she’s a woman of many talents. Soft words are not one of them. But … it was amazing to see you fly so well, even if you did scare us.”

Sasha has to hug his father tightly then, bury his face in Mikhail’s warm sweater. Mikhail’s arms come up and around him, careful not to jostle his healing ribs. Both of them have to turn away and wipe their eyes when they separate.

“Now,” Mikhail says, “your friends mentioned something about a feast?”

Sasha’s laugh is a little watery. “The Hogwarts House Elves make amazing food. I can’t wait for you to try some of the things we don’t have in Russia.”

 

Mike ducks out late in the evening to pack for the morning train; Sanya’s taking the Portkey to Russia with Sasha’s family. Nicky … Nicky is firm on staying at Hogwarts for the holidays.

“Are you sure?” Sasha asks when they’re back in Ravenclaw Tower to let Sasha and Sanya pack their trunks.

Nicky smiles one of his thin smiles. “I’m not ready to spend the holidays with your family,” he admits. The next bed over, Sanya makes a good effort of pretending he’s not listening. “I think you need more time with them, especially after …”

Sasha looks hard at the clothes he’s folding into his trunk. He fiddles with a hem. “Maybe this summer,” Nicky says. “After your graduation. Maybe then I’ll come to Russia with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you've noticed all the cameos, please let me know your favorite addition to the cast. If you didn't notice any cameos, did you skip straight to the end?
> 
> As always, please let me know if there are any typos or mistakes, so I can correct them. And you can find me at [ficcinghell](http://ficcinghell.tumblr.com) on Tumblr. My inbox is always open.


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